


ce qu'elle a dit

by dogearedpage



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Character Death, Dark, Dubious Consent, F/M, Female Stiles Stilinski, Knotting, Manipulation, Mind Control, Morally Ambiguous Stiles Stilinski, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pack Bonding, Panic Attacks, Possessive Behavior, Post-Season/Series 02 AU, Pregnancy, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Violence, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Teen Pregnancy, The Alpha Pack, Trauma, Underage Sex, Unreliable Narrator, Violent Sex, Werewolf Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-10-19 09:17:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 52,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10636884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogearedpage/pseuds/dogearedpage
Summary: "The last thing Stiles thought she wanted to hear was Derek Hale telling her she smelled 'weird'. Except, a few moments later, he outclassed himself and turned Stiles' entire world on its head by telling her something even worse."She didn't smell 'weird'. She smelledpregnant."---Sometimes Peter looks at Stiles like he yearns to sink his fangs into her all over again. She thinks he'll devour her if she isn't careful.Stiles is rarely careful.





	1. a different sort of sniff test

**Author's Note:**

> ' _ce qu'elle a dit_ ' translates to 'what she said'
> 
> I posted the first four chapters all at once to allow readers to get a feel for the story. You can expect updates on a weekly(-ish) basis.
> 
>  **FIC WARNING** **:** If you have any problems with consent issues in fic, this is not something you want to read. This story is from Stiles’ point of view and she considers all the sex she has to be 100% consensual on her end, so the writing reflects that. I personally consider all of the sex in this fic to be dubious consent **_at best_** , even excluding the fact that Stiles is legally underage in California. Again: at _best_. This is a dark fic, and the relationship between Stiles and Peter is not a healthy one by any definition.
> 
> Also, this story deals with a few sensitive issues right from the start, including, but not limited to: the reproductive choices of someone with genetic health risks, and Stiles giving serious thought toward getting an abortion.
> 
> This fic is also going to be quite slow, in terms of both story and plot. This is, at heart, a character-driven story. There will be an action-driven plot later in the fic, but early on the focus is on Stiles' options, choices, and interactions with other characters.
> 
> You can assume the majority of the first season and roughly half of the second season occurred the same as in canon. The differences will be brought up throughout the story, but don't be surprised when things outright contradict canon events.
> 
> Lastly, the way this story is written is purely from Stiles' point of view. Therefore, the narration mirrors her emotional and mental state of each scene. The more frenetic the writing, the more unbalanced Stiles is feeling. It's deliberate.
> 
>  
> 
> This fic is by turns humorous, angsty, feel-good, and disturbing. Casual reminder that a driving character in this mess is Peter Hale, who is not a nice person here. To say the least.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _Stiles was a teenaged, pregnant werewolf. Which, in her opinion, was absolute_ bullshit _._ "
> 
> Stiles reacts.

* * *

**Thursday, April 14, 2011**

16 and Pregnant was not supposed to be an inspirational TV show.

Then again, Stiles _wished_ that was the extent of her problems. None of those girls had to deal with being pregnant with the baby of a murder-happy narcissistic 30-something werewolf who had recently returned from the dead.

With her personal habit of growing claws and fangs when irritated added into the mix, it only made matters all the more complicated.

Stiles was a teenaged, pregnant werewolf. Which, in her opinion, was absolute _bullshit_.

Oh, and the god-awful icing on this nightmare cake was that Stiles couldn't even manage to figure it out on her own and be secretly pregnant in peace. _No_. That would have been too easy. Instead, her potential-baby's future cousin, her current Alpha, the guy who tore out her baby-daddy's throat and killed him, got aggressively _nosy_ and literally _sniffed it out_.

The last thing Stiles thought she wanted to hear was Derek Hale telling her she smelled 'weird'. Except, a few moments later, he outclassed himself and turned Stiles' entire world on its head by telling her something even worse.

She didn't smell 'weird'. She smelled _pregnant_.

Which was why she was standing in the bathroom of her house late in the morning on a school day, staring at three different pregnancy tests. All three were telling her the same thing.

Pregnant.

" _It only takes one time_ ," she mocked aloud. "No fucking shit."

Stiles grabbed the tests and threw them into the bathroom trash. Then, suddenly realizing her _dad_ used this bathroom, started to bundle up the bag. Except. No. That would be suspicious, too.

How often did Stiles take out the bathroom trash? Um. Never, pretty much.

So Stiles fished out the sticks, and went into clean-up mode. She got the boxes, the instructions, the tests themselves, the _receipt_ , and even the bag they'd been put in when she bought them (with cash, a county over, thank _god_ ), and hurried out to her jeep. She felt like she was carrying a bomb or something. Precious cargo.

Fuck.

The bag, tied up with everything inside, was tossed into first dumpster she came across.

Stiles got back behind the wheel and drove out toward Derek's loft.

It was a minor miracle she hadn't broke down and started having a panic attack. Because, fuck. It wasn't exactly like she had the money to pay for an abortion. Stiles wasn't even sure she _wanted_ an abortion.

Okay, no. Not entirely true. She _absolutely_ wanted an abortion, but that was a sort of knee-jerk reaction to the whole situation. Because she was sixteen. And while her father wasn't going to kill her for the whole 'pregnant teenager' thing, he wasn't that kind of dad, he _would_ be disappointed. Probably a whole lot more disappointed than the whole restraining-order-and-getting-him-fired ordeal.

Worse, he'd demand to know who the father was. And how would she explain that?

Oh, the father? Peter Hale. You know, coma burn-victim guy? Went missing a few months back? Yeah, he cornered me at the winter formal and coerced me into a creepy car lot with him where he turned me into a werewolf. It's okay, he totally asked me first. I said 'yes', by the way. And then I sort of lost my mind and had sex with him against a car with his dead nurse stuffed in the trunk. Then we went out to the preserve so I could help him kill Kate Argent. It's okay, she deserved it. Afterward, his nephew, Derek, remember Derek? The guy who _didn't_ kill anybody? Oops, my bad. And afterward, Derek ripped out his throat and killed him. But it's okay! Because a month ago, Peter used some kind of creepy mind control on me to _bring him back from the dead_. So it's all cool now. Really.

Yeah. That would go over _great_. She could just see it now.

But the thing was... she wanted an abortion for purely logical reasons. Like, her age. The father. _Her_ father. The fact that Beacon Hills was beginning to shape up as a real life Hellmouth. The fact that Stiles was a werewolf now.

Shit. The baby would probably be a werewolf too.

Could babies even _be_ werewolves? Did they grow babyfangs alongside babyteeth? Was that a thing? Was it a gradual sort of thing? Was it some sort of waiting game? Did born werewolves have a sort of double-puberty? Wow, that would suck. And not just for the kid, but the parents, too.

And, see, there was the flipside of that whole 'to abort or not to abort, that is the question' issue. She kept thinking about this whole thing like she was going to have this baby.

Was it pregnancy hormones? Did that happen this soon? Werewolfy instinct taking over? Was that a _thing_? Or was there just a part of Stiles, intrinsic to her, that wanted to have the baby?

Stiles parked in a secluded area near Derek's, hidden from street view. Not that many people drove through this area, not even patrol cars from the sheriff's department. But her jeep was pretty distinctive on its own, and pretty much everyone at the station knew what the Sheriff's daughter drove. The last thing she needed right now was her dad hearing that Stiles' jeep was spotted in this part of town, pretty much ever, but especially when she should be at school.

Sure, he'd be getting a call sooner or later that she wasn't in class, but she could bluff her way out of it with the excuse of period cramps or something. Not that she'd had to deal with those recently. Hell, she might not have any for a while to come. She still didn't know.

And while Derek Hale might possibly be the _worst_ person in the world to give advice to anyone, _ever_ , as far as Stiles was concerned, he was also the only person who knew about her current predicament.

Which was why she stormed into Derek's loft without checking for signs of life before loudly declaring:

"I don't know what to do!"

Unfortunately, Derek didn't seem to be there.

Worse still, Peter was.

"Shouldn't you be at school?" he asked, even as he managed to sound completely uninterested in the answer. Peter was sitting on the couch, sprawled out and eyeing her in a way that wasn't entirely comfortable for Stiles to be the subject of. His gaze sharpened slightly, and added, "Don't know what to do about what?"

Stiles swallowed audibly. Audibly even to totally, one-hundred-percent human ears.

"Um. School project?" she said, without thinking.

Peter gave her a mocking look, letting her know just how unbelievable that excuse was.

"Whatever. Where's Grumpy Gus?"

Peter smirked at the irreverence she had toward Derek, and waved a hand idly in the air.

"Off gathering lunch."

Stiles paused, refusing to ask. No. She had to ask.

"Like," she raised her hands and curled in her fingers, "rawr, say goodbye to Bambi's mom?"

"Bambi's _dad_ , actually," Peter corrected.

Stiles eyes went wide and round with surprise. "Really?"

"No, you idiot. Like exchanging currency for takeout. I'm starting to reevaluate my opinion of your intelligence," Peter said sharply.

"Whoa, hey, no. That it not the way you talk to the—" _mother of your child_ , she very nearly said, before amending it with a wavering voice to: "Me. Not the way you talk to The Stiles." Smooth. Real smooth.

" _The Stiles_?" Peter asked incredulously. Apparently his estimation of her was dropping even further.

Which, well, good. Good. Peter not considering her interesting, or clever, or registering her as anything close to 'threat' or 'important' could only be a good thing. Right.

"Mmhmm," she hummed in affirmation, nodding with bright, wild eyes, willing him to believe there was nothing strange or weird about this situation at all.

Peter sighed and pushed himself up off the couch, giving her an odd, considering look.

"So, why are you really here, Stiles?" he asked, eyes narrowing, taking in the manic air around her and somehow seeing all her secrets, she was sure.

"School project," she repeated, this time sounding more sure of herself.

"Which only my darling nephew can help you with, I'm sure."

Peter clearly didn't believe a single word she said. Even without supernaturally-enhanced senses, it was probably easy to figure out Stiles was lying through her teeth. Sometimes, and usually at the absolute worst of times, Stiles could be an absolutely _terrible_ liar.

It was like she was cursed.

Peter came closer to her, making Stiles feel something akin to stalked prey. Which, so not cool. She was a badass predator now. It was entirely unfair that Peter managed to make her feel so cornered so easily.

Even worse, the look on Peter's face underwent a quick series of emotions. Cool disinterest, curiosity, sudden intense interest, and then, worst of all, confusion.

And Stiles could guess exactly what he was confused about, what with the _completely unattractive_ way his nostrils were flaring.

"I should go," she said, shuffling back toward the door. She didn't dare turn around and leave her back to him. The last time she did that, he pinned her to a car and knocked her up. Okay, so she'd been a willing and enthusiastic participant at the time. And it wasn't like she could get any more pregnant at this point, but it was the principle of the thing.

She might be a predator now, but Peter was _predatory_ and unashamed about it. She would have to be an idiot if she turned her back on him.

Her refusal to turn and leave as quickly as inhumanly possible meant that she saw the exact moment recognition hit Peter.

His hand shot out and grabbed her by the arm.

" _Who touched you?_ " he growled, and, shit. Yep. Stiles was starting to feel aroused.

Stiles cursed her inappropriate fear response, and not for the first time. It was what got her into this situation in the first place.

"What?" she asked, stalling as her eyes looked anywhere but at Peter.

His nostrils flared again, drawing in her scent. His hand squeezed painfully tight around her arm for the briefest moment and instantly relaxed, holding her more loosely than before. She could probably break out of his grip now even if she was wholly human.

Instead, she shuddered a little, standing completely still. She couldn't look at him, but she couldn't bring herself to walk away, either.

"Who. Touched. You?" he asked again. "You're _pregnant_ ," Peter said. She was surprised his eyes weren't glowing blue, that he wasn't showing a hint of claw or fang. He _sounded_ out of control, but by the looks of him, he was holding on to his humanity quite well. Or maybe he really did come back significantly diminished, like he claimed.

"Um, about that," Stiles said, a hint of near-hysterical laughter creeping into her voice.

"That's why you're here," Peter said flatly. "To speak to _Derek_. Because you're pregnant."

Oh god, he thought Derek had knocked her up.

Stiles didn't know whether she should be relieved where Peter was taking this, or if she should just blurt out the truth. Stiles had always been on somewhat shaky terms with the truth, but she thought, perhaps, this wasn't the sort of thing she should try to prevaricate or bullshit her way around.

Not because she owed him or anything. Fuck that noise. She'd claw out Peter's throat herself if he thought he could tell her whether or not to keep her baby. (And there she went again. 'Her baby'. Great.)

So. There it was. Stiles was starting to think more and more that she was going to keep it. And, well. She could only think of a small handful of people who'd make worse fathers than Peter Hale, but there was a surprisingly strong part of her that wanted to at least give him the _chance_ to prove her wrong.

"Because he's the only other person who knows," she said, surprising herself with her honestly. Well. Go broke or go home. "Surprise! It's a... actually, I don't know _what_ it is other than a baby. Because it's probably too early to tell, and also I only just took a pregnancy test this morning in case Derek's nose was malfunctioning. Well, three pregnancy tests, because you never know, right? But I guess it's definitely a baby? A werebaby? I don't know how that works. Will it come out of me with sideburns?! Is this the part where I get you a cigar? Or is that only after the birth? Also, I'm sixteen and can't legally buy tobacco products, but, you know, I also can't legally have sex in this state, and, well, we both know how _that_ turned out."

As Stiles rambled on, and on, and _on_ , Peter's fac ran through the gamut of emotions yet again. Rage, irritation, confusion, understanding, horror _._

It was the horror that finally did her in. She was _not_ going to cry, damn it, she just was. not. going to cry _at all_. But her eyes did well up with tears, the traitors, and she tugged harder than necessary to break free of his lax grip around her forearm.

"Right. Well. This was fun," she said, voice far steadier than she would have expected, "but I should go."

"It's mine," Peter said dumbly, half question, half statement of disbelief.

"Unless werewolves are capable of asexual reproduction, um, yes. Considering you're the only one I've—. Well." Stiles looked heavenward and sighed. "This whole conversation has been sufficiently embarrassing as it is. So, I'm gonna..." she gestured lamely toward the door.

Peter nodded slowly, then put out his hand and quickly drew it back in an aborted move to stop her.

Hah, 'aborted'. Fuck. Stiles was so fucked. Or, she had been. Which was why she was in her current predicament. Shit.

Then Peter's voice broke through her inner turmoil.

"You said you don't know what to do."

Stiles frowned at him, gearing herself up to tell him that she didn't care what _he_ thought she should do.

"Tell me once you've figured that out."

"Why?" she asked suspiciously. Which... okay, it wasn't that she wasn't suspicious of his motives; she wasn't, despite what anyone might think, an idiot. And Stiles was fully of the belief that one completely trusted anything Peter said at their own peril. But at that moment she felt more surprise than suspicion. She definitely hadn't been expecting that response.

"Because whatever you decide, I'll take care of the financial aspect. At the very least," he told her, without a hint of what he was feeling leaking onto his face or into his words.

' _At the very least_.'

That was... comforting?

She didn't know what she felt about that, actually. So, instead of opening her mouth and digging herself into a hole, or a bigger hole, really, Stiles nodded.

She walked backwards toward the door, stumbling when she hit the wall sooner than she'd thought.

Stiles had thought being a werewolf would cure her of her klutziness. Every _other_ werewolf she knew seemed to have preternatural gracefulness and agility. Stiles just got over-sensitive smelling and hearing, the occasional anger management problem, and the ability to accidentally break things even more easily than before.

It really wasn't fair.

Stiles twisted around to push open the door and bolted out of there as quickly as possible. She didn't know where she was going, but she was leaving for wherever it was _immediately_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/questions/critique are all welcome and encouraged!


	2. chocolate ice cream only helps so much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _'My life is a_ mess _,' Stiles moaned, putting her head in her hands._ "
> 
> Stiles takes a moment to stop and think.

* * *

**Thursday, April 14, 2011**

The thing is, one of the biggest reasons Stiles said 'yes' that night in the parking garage— to the bite, not the sex— was because she wanted to have kids. _One day_. One day, she wanted to have kids. Not nine months later, though. More like nine _years_ later.

And until Peter held her wrist up to his mouth, razor-sharp fangs less than an inch from her tender skin, she believed it was one of those dreams she'd have to give up on.

Frontotemporal dementia had a genetic aspect to it.

It was terrifying enough to think she might end up like her mother, but she refused to let her potential future children go through what she did as a child.

She didn't care about his sale's pitch. Stiles didn't care about being popular, or being good at sports. She didn't care that she was the plucky human sidekick in Scott's story, because _he_ was the hapless werewolf best friend in _her_ story. She didn't need the bite to make high school less traumatic. She was pretty sure it would have the opposite effect, in any case.

Besides, she might not have a problem with Peter hunting down and slaughtering everyone involved in his family's murder, but she definitely had a huge problem with all the collateral damage he was accruing. Scott, for starters.

But she couldn't restrain herself, couldn't help but ask, "Can werewolves get diseases?"

After that, Stiles hadn't faltered, her heartbeat didn't stutter, her scent didn't waver. She said _yes, do it_ , and Peter bit down. She didn't struggle, or cry out at the pain. The pain didn't bother her; it was like she was being cleansed.

There was also something embarrassingly arousing about having a handsome man's mouth on her wrist, touching her, telling her how _magnificent_ she was going to be. So when she stumbled over to the back of the car to support her bleeding wrist, she didn't shriek or lash out when Peter followed her and pressed her into the vehicle.

He was probably trying to intimidate her into coming along to help him find Derek and kill Kate Argent.

Instead, he got up close behind her, and froze with a sharp inhale.

The pain hadn't done anything to douse her ardour; it had only made it stronger. And Peter _was_ handsome for an older (and more-than-a-little psychotic) man. He was dangerous, and right behind her, and Stiles simply... reacted.

She had pressed back up against his body, rolled her ass back up against the front of his pants without stopping to _think_ about it. And the next thing she knew, his hands were on her. Then pulling up her dress, and touching the damp between her thighs.

Stiles mostly remembered saying 'yes' so many times in so many ways, egging him on with both her words and her body. She remembered the strangely shockingly loud sound of his fly being undone, the discomfort of his cock breaching her, her hands and face pressed down on top of the closed trunk, the wet sounds of fucking, Peter's breath in her ear, his hands groping a breast and on her clit. She could distinctly recall that she had the best orgasm of her life with his fingers playing her expertly, his cock thrusting inside her cunt. But most of the entire situation, what she felt, _how_ she felt, was a blur.

Stiles definitely hadn't taken into account the lack of a condom, or Peter finishing inside her.

Actually, everything after he made her come was pretty hazy.

She did remember how, afterward, when their clothes were back in order, if not a bit rumpled, he licked the inside of her wrist free of blood. _Thoroughly_. It had left her clenching involuntarily, missing the heat and weight of him inside her already.

And then they got into separate vehicles and drove out to the preserve and the ruins of the old Hale home.

Where everything proceeded to go to shit.

Two weeks later, Stiles was struggling to control her newfound wolfiness, dealing with a new unknown and murderous supernatural creature in town, and suddenly dreaming about Peter Hale every time she closed her eyes.

And, wow, that had been ten different types of horrifying. Not the least because a significant portion of those dreams involved a surprising amount of nudity.

She still wasn't entirely sure just how many of those dreams had actually been _dreams_ , rather than Peter-in-her-mind. Hell, she had no idea if Peter was even aware of everything that had been going on in her head when he'd wormed his way in there alongside her subconscious.

Stiles had no idea how disturbed she should be by the whole thing. Would Peter knowing what had gone on in her head while he was dead make the situation better or worse?

So, really, it made perfect sense that she tried not to think about it at all.

Stiles drove back home, parking in the driveway. She was at the point where she couldn't bring herself to care whether or not she got in trouble for skipping school that day. She had bigger problems.

Like, the fact that she was about ninety-percent sure she wanted to stay pregnant. She wanted to keep the baby. Her dad's job was already on thin ice because of her, and now she was thinking of throwing in a teenage pregnancy scandal to complicate matters further.

After grabbing a spoon and fishing out a pint of chocolate ice cream she kept hidden behind bags of frozen vegetables in the freezer, Stiles went up to her bedroom for a late morning full of google searches.

Come early afternoon, she was only feeling worse about her situation, and chocolate ice cream could only help so much.

Apparently she wouldn't need Peter's help to pay for an abortion unless she really wanted to stick it to him. She could get it done, _without_ her father having to know about it, and there was a program in place that would help pay for it.

And while that was great news, really, Stiles was proud of her state's progressive reproductive health services and assistance, the more she looked into it, the less she felt like it was something she wanted.

Unfortunately, if she didn't, things would be a _lot_ more difficult to deal with. Like the fact that she was under eighteen, and Peter was... very much not. Sure, it was possible he might technically still be a missing person, but he very much existed from a legal standpoint. And the statute of limitations on statutory rape (and oh, how she cringed at those words) was ten years if there was DNA evidence.

Stiles looked down at her belly, poking the natural little pooch below her bellybutton. A baby would kind of be the ultimate DNA proof she'd had sex with a much older man. And she couldn't see her dad letting that go.

So if she had the baby, she wouldn't be able to get Peter involved in his or her little life.

Which, okay, might be for the best, considering a) his recent past as a spree killer, and b) she had no idea if he had any interest in being a father, anyway.

But, again, she was maybe less upset about the former than she probably ought to be. And as for the latter, well, he had said he'd provide for the baby financially, 'at the very least'. Like... he might be interested in being a dad?

Stiles whined pitifully.

There was also the whole 'werewolf' issue to take into account. All the werewolves she knew were turned, other than Derek and Peter. And the last thing she wanted was to be too visibly close to _either_ of them if she was going to need to worry about the law getting involved.

Of course, there was a chance that if she swore up and down until she was blue in the face that she told Peter she was eighteen, that he had no idea she was underage.... Well, that could possibly work, but it was still not ideal.

The whole thing was only made worse by the fact that the timing would mean she had unprotected sex with a middle-aged man just barely out of a coma and declared missing from the hospital. Who _did_ that?

"My life is a _mess_ ," Stiles moaned, putting her head in her hands.

Everything was telling her she needed to woman up and book an appointment and get an abortion. And, hell, Stiles was pragmatic. She was like the _most_ pragmatic, okay? Logic told her it was what she needed to do, and it wasn't like she had any sort of moral objection to the idea. She'd always thought that if an accident ever occurred before she could make sure she was no longer capable of getting pregnant, that she'd get an abortion immediately.

But, and this was the big sticking point, she _didn't want to do it_.

It was as though after becoming a werewolf, a switch had been turned on in her head. She would be healthy, she could have a healthy baby. She was pregnant, _now_ , and no matter how inconvenient or troublesome the timing and circumstances were, she _wanted_ to keep it.

It wasn't even like she had anyone she could talk to about this, either.

Normally, Stiles would turn to Scott, but he'd already been furious enough with her when she told him that Peter had asked for her permission to give her the bite, and she'd accepted. Scott had refused to believe it at first, trying to make excuses. He had insisted that Peter only wanted her to _think_ she had any choice in the matter. That no matter what she had said at the time, he would have changed her anyway.

Stiles disagreed. She couldn't put her finger on why, exactly. It wasn't like she couldn't believe Peter Hale could, or _would_ , do something like that. But there was a part of her that wholeheartedly believed that if she'd told him to keep his teeth to himself, he would have. She believed that, for whatever reason, Peter genuinely wanted it to be her choice whether or not to be a werewolf.

Maybe because he'd failed so spectacularly at trying to build his pack with Scott? Perhaps he'd learned his lesson and had decided to only make willing pack members. Or maybe it was because he was less desperate, less instinctually driven to increase the size of his pack. Stiles didn't know, but she had definitely believed it had been her choice. That Peter would have accepted her choice _not_ to become a werewolf if that was what she had wanted.

But Scott couldn't see it that way. He was so insistent that she was a victim, that Stiles had been manipulated into becoming a werewolf, or that Peter had only been giving her the _illusion_ of choice and Stiles only agreed to his offer because, deep down, she knew it, too.

She couldn't imagine trying to explain that immediately after, she'd bent over the back of a car and encouraged Peter to fuck her. Scott would _lose his mind_.

Because Peter would always be a villain in Scott's eyes. Peter turned Scott into a 'monster' against his will. Peter was a murderer. He'd killed his niece for power, and then went around Beacon Hills terrorizing the population and killing people left and right. Peter was manipulative, and creepy. Peter had wanted to kill Scott's sweet, perfect Allison.

Stiles didn't blame Scott for thinking Peter was pretty much the devil. It wasn't like there weren't a whole lot of very good reasons to distrust the guy.

It was just that she saw most of Peter's actions differently than Scott did. Peter was creepy and manipulative, yes. Amoral, certainly. He had been bloodthirsty, more driven by rage and instinct than reason. But Stiles didn't think Peter was _evil_. He also seemed to be a lot less insane now than he had been before Derek killed him.

(Which was kind of weird, when she thought about it. Did death have magical mental health healing properties? Had Peter just needed a time-out to cool down from his revenge-murder binge?)

But Scott had a black-and-white morality way of thinking, whereas Stiles was someone who saw the world in infinite shades of gray. It usually worked out well between them, but there was no way in hell that Stiles wanted to have a conversation with Scott about her latest problems with her life choices.

She definitely couldn't go to her dad about the whole thing. Her dad was _part_ of her problems, and had a high probability of making matters so much worse.

Stiles briefly considered Scott's mom, especially since Melissa knew about werewolves now, but immediately dismissed the idea for being too awkward and way too weird. Even brushing aside the fact that Peter had tried to seduce Melissa to threaten Scott. And Stiles couldn't chance Melissa telling her dad.

Which basically left Derek and Peter.

Peter should have been out of the running, because, well, he was sort of the cause of her current predicament. But Derek was turning out to be the champion of bad decisions. Stiles didn't entirely blame the guy, and sure, she'd decided it was better to be a part of his pack than continue on as a pack of two with Scott. But that didn't mean she was eager to chat with him about how his uncle had knocked her up and she was a huge mess over what to do about it.

So, as much as she hated it, Peter was starting to look like the only not-completely-awful choice for who to talk to. And while she really didn't want to let him influence her decision, this was shaping up to be so much more than she could deal with on her own.

Stiles pulled out her phone and scrolled through her contacts until she reached Derek's number. She didn't have one for Peter, but Derek had made sure all his betas had his cell number, just in case.

She shot him a quick text: _is peter with you?_

Thankfully, she wasn't left to stare laser eyes into her phone and bite her nails for too long. Her phone chimed and she checked the screen, only fumbling with the phone a little in her nervous excitement.

_Yes_

Stiles rolled her eyes. Loquacious as ever. Then her phone chimed again, with a follow-up from Derek.

_Why?_

Oh, look, punctuation and everything that time. Wow. Derek was really improving his text game.

But now Stiles didn't know what to say. 'Tell him to call me'? 'Go away so I can come over and talk to him'? If Derek didn't already know who got her pregnant, that would be like a flashing neon sign. And she really didn't want him to connect the dots if he hadn't already.

But before she could formulate a response, she got another text.

_He says if it's okay with you, he can stop by your place to pick up the book he lent you._

Then, another text, immediately after: _What book? Why is Peter lending you stuff? Why are you talking to him at all?_

Stiles growled in frustration, surprising herself when it wasn't a huff of simple irritation, but an actual, honest-to-god wolf growl. Thankfully, she hadn't sprouted claws, making it easier to text back.

_nosy much? it's just a book. chill, alpha mine. and yeah it's fine._

Derek didn't waste any time in responding. _You can't trust him._

Stiles rolled her eyes. _NOT an idiot thanks. never said i did. in fact im p sure trust and peter are two words ive NEVER used together but ok. wont trust him. happy?_

Stiles was tempted to add how doubtful that was, because Derek was probably allergic to happiness or something. But she had at least a modicum of self preservation, and even with her pretty terminal case of foot-in-mouth disease, she knew that would be going too far. Plus, texting meant she had a chance to think about what she was saying before sending it. If this had been a verbal conversation, yeah. She totally would have said it.

Of course, the joke was on her, when she got one last text from Derek. Stiles could just imagine him as the very picture of stoicism and grumpy eyebrows as he typed it out on his phone.

_Ecstatic_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/questions/critique are all welcome and encouraged!


	3. the big bad wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _'Come on, drive,' she said, buckling her seatbelt. 'The last thing either of us need right now is to be seen together. And we need to talk.'_ "
> 
> Stiles goes somewhere she probably shouldn't.

* * *

**Thursday, April 14, 2011**

Twenty minutes later, Peter was pulling up in front of Stiles' house.

She was waiting for him, and walked right up to the passenger side door and tried the handle. It was locked.

Peter rolled down the window partway.

"I'm assuming you wanted to talk to me?"

Stiles gave him a disgusted glare and tried the door handle repeatedly, just to be extra obnoxious about it.

"Yeah, so unlock the door. I really don't want one of my neighbors spotting me talking to a creepy old man and it getting back to my dad."

She was feeling somewhat hostile at the moment. So sue her. Stiles figured it was her prerogative to be as difficult as she wanted for as long as she had Peter's spawn in her belly. And apparently Peter wasn't feeling all that differently, because he didn't bother insulting her, he just sighed like he was suffering and hit the unlock button.

She tumbled into the car, narrowly avoiding tripping over her own feet, and dropped her messenger bag down at her feet once she was settled with the door closed.

"Come on, drive," she said, buckling her seatbelt. "The last thing either of us need right now is to be seen together. And we need to talk."

Peter pulled out onto the street and asked her, "And why is that?"

Stiles looked at him with manufactured horrified shock and wordlessly pointed at her belly.

It only took Peter a moment to glance her way, and she was pretty sure he was rolling his eyes once he saw what she was doing. Luckily, he didn't comment any further.

Not so luckily, however, he was driving further into town, which only drove Stiles closer and closer to a panic attack. She did not want to be seen skipping school in general, and she absolutely didn't want to be seen skipping school in a car with an older man specifically.

"Relax," Peter drawled from beside her, sounding completely at ease and unaffected by what Stiles was sure was going to be her eventual downfall. "If you tear up my upholstery, I'll be extremely annoyed with you."

Stiles looked down, and sure enough, her claws were out and only moments away from digging into the edges of her seat. She lifted her hands and clasped them tightly in her lap, ignoring the pinpricks of pain as they dug into the backs of her hands instead.

"And that's different from your usual attitude toward me, how?" she bit out at last. She had said it a bit too delayed to be a proper comeback, but Stiles didn't have enough focus to really care.

"Stiles," Peter chided, tone sickly sweet, "you haven't seen me extremely annoyed with you, yet. Moderately irritated, at worst."

Stiles scowled, burrowing deeper into the seat in an attempt to be less noticeable to anyone who might look in through the windows. Her claws had recessed back... wherever they went. So at least there was that.

"So where are we going?" she eventually asked, eyes darting around as Peter drove through downtown. Her foot was tapping so fast on the floorboard she was nearly vibrating from the movement. And she couldn't even blame her ADHD anymore.

Well, at least she wouldn't have to worry about having to go off her meds if she kept the baby, or what sort of damage they could have already done to the fetus by now. It had turned out that Lycanthropy was a pretty effective treatment method for neurological disorders. And Adderall should have pretty much no effect on her anymore, anyway. Unless she wanted to take ten times her usual dose all at once, she assumed. Not that she wanted to test that theory out. Ever. Stiles had no interest in seeing what effect stimulants had on her new and improved werewolf biology, thanks.

"My apartment," Peter said, sounding a little tense. Not irritated, but definitely not thrilled. Pretty much the opposite of it.

"Oh," Stiles said faintly. "You have an apartment?"

"Where did you think I was living? With _Derek_?"

Stiles shrugged. "Never really thought about it." She frowned, considering the logistics. "How does a dead guy rent an apartment? Or, I guess, since your body was just shoved under some floorboards instead of in an actual grave, someone listed as a missing person?"

"There was a mix-up with the paperwork at the hospital, of course. I was transferred to a private facility as I came out of my coma, and spent some time under the care of the best plastic surgeons money can buy."

"Uh huh," Stiles intoned skeptically. "And just how well is that story going to hold up?"

Peter's grin was all teeth. "Don't you worry your pretty little head. When you have enough money and know the right people, and I do, almost anything is possible. All the legalities have already been handled."

Stiles rolled her eyes, but decided to change the subject. It was better than listening to Peter stroke his own ego.

"What book did I borrow from you, by the way?"

Peter shot a disappointed glance her way. "You didn't. That was the excuse I used to get Derek to let you know I could come meet you."

"No shit, Sherlock. But I already had to sidestep around telling Derek what the 'book' was," she even used finger quotes as she spoke, "and if he asks me again, it will sound suspicious if I avoid the answer again. So. What _book_ did I borrow?"

Peter exhaled loudly through his nose, but let go of the wheel with one hand to gesture lazily.

"You'll get the chance to snoop around my bookshelf in a few minutes. Pick something."

Stiles perked up a little, sensing a little bit of something for her at the end of this deeply traumatic day. But before she could open her mouth, Peter cut her off.

"No."

"I didn't even say anything," Stiles sulked.

"You were going to ask to borrow one of my books in actuality. The answer is 'no'."

The car turned down a side road, and then again into a parking lot behind a pretty nice looking apartment building.

Stiles scoffed. "Oh, so I can walk around with your baby inside me, but I can't even borrow a single _book_? Dude, you need to get your priorities in order."

The car skidded to a halt abruptly, but from what Stiles could tell, they were in actual parking space, so... yay? She looked at Peter, and the guy was actually looking kind of frazzled. Go Stiles. Then again, she remembered all too well what an unhinged Peter was like, so maybe she should lighten up on purposely freaking him out.

Yeah, that wasn't super likely. Stiles liked to walk a dangerously thin line at what she could get away with, and had the tendency to get easily distracted and walk off the line entirely and wander around occasionally. And, okay, so the metaphor had run away from her a little there, but the point still held.

She might not have to deal with a serious case of ADHD anymore, but she still needed to work on training her focus. Even when she stayed appropriately medicated, Stiles had never been great at streamlining her thought processes.

"I'm not going to say sorry," she told him after a couple moments of tense silence.

At last, Peter put the car in park and turned off the engine.

"And what is it you don't think you should be apologizing for?" Peter asked as he undid his seatbelt. She appreciated that he realized that while _he_ might not need one, if he got into an accident, it would decrease the damage done if he was thrown from the car. Or, more likely, he just didn't want to get ticketed. Okay, so it was almost definitely the latter. Whatever.

"Freaking you out with my flippant references to the bun you put in my oven?" Stiles responded cheerfully.

"I'm not _freaked out_."

"Could have fooled me."

Stiles couldn't pinpoint why she was being so antagonistic, especially since she was actually hoping for Peter's cooperation. Then again, Stiles tried not to kid herself. Fooling everyone around her into thinking she was fine, that she thought life was one big joke, was one thing. But she knew exactly why she hid behind inappropriate humor and her near pathological inability to take things seriously.

She was purposely needling Peter because she needed to know where she stood. She needed to know how far was _too_ far. She needed to know he wouldn't lash out at her aside from the occasional cutting verbal barb.

Besides. It was _Peter_. She didn't really need a reason to be antagonistic toward him, other than every single thing he'd done since he woke up from his coma.

But Peter was being surprisingly decent. For Peter. Or maybe for anyone? Stiles wasn't too certain how the average non-psychotic thirty-something would be handling this situation. She definitely wasn't planning on taking it easy on him, though. Even if it was as much her fault as it was his.

 _He_ wasn't the pregnant teenager, here.

Stiles didn't know how to feel as she followed Peter out of the car and toward the building. One one hand, she wasn't crazy about going into Peter's apartment without anyone knowing where she was. It wasn't like she could send Scott a text telling him where to look for her mangled corpse if she went missing. On the other hand, she was maybe, possibly, going to have Peter's baby, and she might, kind of, want him to have a chance to be a father.

It didn't make a whole lot of sense to skirt around him like he was going to hurt her if she was planning to let him around her kid.

And that was one of the biggest things that scared her about this whole situation. She _wanted_ to trust Peter, no matter what she'd told Derek. Stiles wanted to be able to feel safe around him, feel comfortable with Peter being around the baby she was— and, okay, it was time to stop trying to claim otherwise— the baby she was almost certainly going to have.

So, as far as Stiles was concerned, she might need to make the first overture here, but in the end it was going to be down to Peter actually acting trustworthy from here on out. It was probably wishful thinking. Stiles was _terrible_ at trusting other people, _especially_ people who had already gotten on her bad side.

Stiles touched her stomach lightly as Peter unlocked his door.

So far, Peter hadn't done anything to her she couldn't get over. To other people, sure, but not to Stiles. She didn't even hold the month of weird dreams and being used to bring him back to life against him too much. She was too jaded and not nearly naive enough to think this was a good idea, to think that he could really change. But deep down, there was a strong drive to give him a chance to prove her wrong.

And if he didn't, if he hurt anyone she cared about ever again, if he did anything to her, or the baby. Well. She didn't need super werewolf powers to destroy him, make him regret ever crossing her. And she had them anyway.

"You need to work on your control."

Stiles dropped her hand and looked up at Peter, who stood languidly just inside the door, gesturing for her to enter. The way he was looking at her was kind of intense.

"Your eyes are flashing," he elaborated, then arched his eyebrows and gestured more emphatically. "Have you decided against following the big bad wolf into his home? I promise not to bite."

"Again, you mean?" Stiles scoffed as she pulled herself together, sweeping in through the doorway and past him. She dropped her bag on a table and kicked off her shoes.

It felt like a sign of trust as much as of a sign of casual disrespect when she left them laying out in the middle of the floor. Not that she necessarily needed shoes to make a quick getaway, but it was symbolic. Stiles walked further into the main room, dropping lazily onto the couch, which felt as comfortable as it looked. Which was very.

She laid back across the length of the couch and drew up her feet onto one of the cushions, loosely draping her hands around her middle. She heard Peter closing the door, but didn't hear the tell-tale sounds of him locking it behind them.

She'd put a point in the trust column, if it weren't for the fact that she was pretty sure Peter knew exactly what he was doing. She couldn't even trust he wasn't trying to manipulate her into trusting him.

This was probably the worst idea she'd ever had, even worse than the time she dragged Scott out into the woods to look for a dead body.

"Please, make yourself comfortable," Peter said, dry as the Sahara. She could hear him moving closer, and, with a little effort, could detect the slight increase in his scent as he grew nearer to her.

"What? Not going to offer me something to drink?" she asked, craning her neck a little to look in his direction.

"My apologies. It's been _so long_ since I've entertained guests." Peter sat down on the edge of his coffee table and tapped his fingers out on his knee. Once.

If she didn't know any better, Stiles would think he was nervous. She propped herself up on her elbows, trying not to care when she realized how splayed out she was before him.

"I didn't expect you to reach out to me so soon. It's only been a few hours."

Stiles shrugged up a shoulder, then pushed herself up to a sitting position and crossed her legs.

"Yeah, well." Stiles picked at a loose thread at the tip of her Wonder Woman socks, not looking at him anymore. "As much as logic is telling me that this is a terrible idea, and completely insane, and probably going to end in a whole lot of tears and screaming all around...." Her words trailed off, and she finally chanced a look at Peter's face. His expression was blank. "I want to keep it."

The only outward emotion Peter expressed was through a twitch in his jaw and a reflexive blink. But when Stiles drew in a long slow inhale through her nose, there was a whole hell of a lot going on beneath the surface. Though she still wasn't very good at picking out emotions via scent— Stiles couldn't separate and identify them if her life depended on it— there was an underlying note she couldn't possibly miss. The one she had no problem recognizing, and would forever have seared into her mental scent catalogue.

 _Fear_.

"That was your cue to tell me I'm being an idiot," Stiles said after a short pause, voice a bit warbly and chest starting to feel a bit tight.

Peter didn't say anything. He just sighed, stood up, and walked away.

Stiles sat there, trying to breathe as silently as possible, and hugged herself as she pulled in her limbs. She cursed herself for being upset, for coming here in the first place, for being stupid enough to bend over and lose her virginity to the worst person imaginable in an adrenaline-fueled haze of bad decisions.

When Peter returned to her line of sight, she let out a small, involuntary sort of whimper. It wasn't a wholly human sound.

At least she hadn't started crying. That would have been impossibly humiliating.

He was carrying a glass of water and had a large throw blanket bunched up under one arm. The glass he set down in front of Stiles, and the blanket he gently draped over her shoulders, tucking the corners in around her. Then he gave her a considering look and pulled a pristine white handkerchief out from a pocket and set it down next to the glass.

"'M not crying, asshole," she said thickly, blinking back damp eyelashes. She couldn't even manage to make the words sound properly irritated. Stiles swallowed, then reached out to take a few sips of water— without even checking first to see if it was poisoned, wonder of wonders— then put the glass back down and tugged the blanket more tightly around her slight frame.

"What do you need from me?" was all Peter said in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/questions/critique are all welcome and encouraged!


	4. an unequivocally terrible idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _'I don't know. A marriage proposal might keep my dad from shooting you,' she told him._ "
> 
> Against her better judgment, Stiles talks things out with Peter.

* * *

**Thursday, April 14, 2011**

Stiles exploded. It was the only word to describe her sudden outburst.

"Why are you acting like this?!"

Peter put his hands on his hips. "Like what?"

"Like a _person_! You're being nice and considerate and it's seriously freaking me out!" The edges of the blanket dropped to her sides as she threw her arms out to gesticulate wildly. Stiles immediately grabbed them to bundle herself back up.

Peter rolled his eyes and dropped his arms, then slowly walked over to sit beside her, moving cautiously like one would around a wounded animal who was on the verge of snapping. It didn't do anything to put Stiles at ease.

"Would it make you feel better if I stroked my goatee and started making thinly veiled threats?" Peter asked her, exasperated.

"Maybe," she shot back, aware how sulky and childish she sounded, and resolutely told herself she didn't care.

Peter caught her eye and deliberately raised his fingers up to his chin.

Before he could actually start stroking his damn facial hair, Stiles elbowed him in the arm, jolting his hand away from his face. It didn't stop her from snorting in a vague approximation of laughter, though.

Sobering quickly, Stiles unbent her legs to rest the upper half of her feet on the edge of the coffee table and leaned back with her eyes closed.

"This is so fucked up," she admitted in a hushed voice.

Peter lightly swatted at her leg nearest to him, probably trying to get her to get her feet off his furniture. Stiles kicked out a little in his direction and put her foot back down where it had been in a show of defiance.

"Very mature," Peter said, leaning back as well in a mimicry of her posture. Although, he did keep his feet on the floor, knees splayed out wide.

"I'm sixteen. What's your excuse?"

"And yet you're making the decision to become a mother. Have you even thought about this at all?"

And there it was. She'd been wondering when he'd finally bring up the enormous polkadotted elephant in the room. Stiles hadn't been sure he would.

"Fuck you," she said without rancour, opening her eyes and turning her head to face him. He was... a lot nearer than she'd thought. She was lucky she was so emotionally wrung out that she didn't possess the energy to jump away from him in surprise.

"You take a couple of pregnancy tests that come up positive and a few hours later you're already deciding to become an unwed teenage mother."

Stiles abruptly choked on her own spit.

"I'm sorry, ' _unwed_ '? That's what you take out of this? What do you think this is, the 1950s?" she stared at Peter in horrified incredulity. "Unless that was your severely warped way of asking me to marry you. In which case, worst proposal ever."

Peter's face suddenly twisted to mirror the look on her own.

"Is that what you think I was saying? Need I remind you of the fact that you're _sixteen_ ," he all but spat, "and even if I had any desire to get married, which I _don't_ , it certainly wouldn't be to _you_."

Ouch. That almost hurt. Not that Stiles had been serious, but still. That was just uncalled for.

"I don't know. A marriage proposal might keep my dad from shooting you," she told him.

No, it wouldn't. It really, really wouldn't. Not because Stiles had sex, or was a girl, or even because she had gotten pregnant. But because Stiles was sixteen, and Peter was probably nearing forty. And that was even without telling her dad just how creepy and dangerous Peter really was.

Peter rolled his eyes. Someone needed to tell him to be careful, lest they stick like that.

"Werewolf," he said, gesturing to himself. "And since you haven't availed yourself of informing him about our kind, it's hardly as though he'll be able to do any real damage."

"Don't be so smug, or I'll tell him just to make sure he hunts your furry ass down with some extra special wolfsbane-laced bullets."

"Lie." Peter smirked at her. It was unfair how well that curling sneer suited his looks.

Stiles sighed and closed her eyes again, tugging the blanket to bundle the fabric up under her chin. She curbed the urge to punch him in his stupid, smug face.

"Look," she said, "I get that you think I'm making a rash decision or whatever. And I don't know, maybe I am. But I _have_ thought about it. I _get_ just how dumb an idea it is, okay? I'm too young. I've been a werewolf for like two minutes. Beacon Hills seems to be getting more dangerous by the day. And, oh yeah, if anyone finds out you're the father, you'll either get handcuffs slapped on you, or Derek will tear out your throat. Again."

Peter made a small disgruntled sound, but didn't interrupt her. Stiles opened her eyes to watch his face.

"Like I said before. Logically, this is an unequivocally terrible idea. You're pretty much the last person who should ever procreate. No, seriously, I'm worried this baby will be born with devil horns, okay."

Peter's expression turned quizzical, like he was contemplating the odds of that happening and finding the possibility not wholly unlikely.

Stiles had to force down the sudden urge to giggle, internally putting it down as a reaction to stress. Besides, she was so not the giggling sort. She was all snark, and harsh, biting laughter in small amounts.

"But I don't always go with what's logical. My gut is telling me I should do this. That it'll be a good thing, and one day I'll be grateful this happened." She clenched her fists around the blanket's edges. "I'm already thinking of it like it's a person inside me. Like, it's just inevitable that I'm going to have this baby. I'm going to be its mom. And I don't often see things that way; I don't do the whole 'visualize where you'll be in five years' thing. I can't even picture what I'll be doing in five days. But I can see myself raising this kid."

Peter sat up slowly after she finished talking, leaning forward with his arms resting on his legs.

"On a scale of one to ten, how bad are you freaking out?" she asked, only half joking.

"I'll ask again," he said, not turning around to face her. "What do you need from me?"

Stiles groaned, loud and audibly frustrated.

"I don't know," she said, dropping her feet and sitting up straight. "You already offered, and I wouldn't say no to some financial support, but." Stiles went quiet, thinking, then continued. "I have no idea how I'm going to explain this to anyone. My dad especially. But I know I can't tell anyone _you_ knocked me up.

"And it wouldn't be suspicious _at all_ if you were suddenly giving me money to help pay for medical bills and baby supplies," she added sarcastically.

Peter nodded slowly. "I can have something set up where the money can't be traced back to me."

"Yeah, maybe," Stiles said. She didn't think that would be too easy to explain away, either, but she didn't want to argue against the idea just yet. She chewed on her bottom lip a moment, then bumped shoulders with Peter without really thinking about how he'd react.

Thankfully, his reaction was limited to tilting his head to look at her and a raised eyebrow, but still.

"I also want you to be able to be this kid's dad. If you want. That's a lot harder to come up with a way to do it."

Peter froze.

" _What_?" His voice was raspy and shot through with disbelief.

She shrugged.

"You can't be serious," Peter said.

"Well. I am. Very serious." Stiles made a face. "I've given it some thought, really, and I want it to be your decision. If you're not interested, or if you think you can't control your murderous impulses, then fine. You can stick to anonymous child support. And helpful advice on how to handle a tiny werewolf, assuming that's something I need to worry about."

Peter's eyes flicked down to her flat belly, then back to her face.

"It's more likely than not," he said. "Not something you should have to worry about until they're a few years old, and it will come on gradually, but yes. Your child will most likely be a werewolf as well."

' _Your child_ ', he said. Well. Stiles opened her mouth to say something, but for once, she was at a loss for anything to say. Usually it was the other way around. Too many words rattling around in her head while she held them close inside, not saying them out loud. Thankfully, before she could strain herself trying to come up with a response, Peter spoke again.

" _Our_ child, I suppose." He didn't look too certain about that, though.

"If you want," Stiles said, finally releasing her grip on the blanket and letting it drop down off her shoulders. "I mean, take your time. You don't need to decide now, or any time soon. But if you're going to be this kid's father, for real, I mean, then it's not something I'll let you take back. Unless you go psycho again. In which case, I'll kill you myself, and make sure there's not enough of you to bring back a second time. Don't think I won't."

Stiles felt her eyes flash as she spoke the last sentence.

Peter's eyes gleamed back at her, and a satisfied sort of expression slid across his face before they dimmed.

"Oh, Stiles," he said, silky smooth, "I wouldn't dare underestimate you. I completely believe you'll do whatever you deem necessary to protect your family."

Stiles swallowed, thinking back on Peter's revenge kick.

"As much as you'd do to avenge yours," she said, voice steady as a rock.

"Are you forgetting I killed my own niece?" he asked, slowly leaning in closer to her. He was in full predatory mode right then, and Stiles wished she didn't find it a turn-on. She thought she _should_ be frightened, but there was nothing about what Peter was doing that pinged her instincts as a threat. He was trying to intimidate her, but she didn't believe he would actually _do_ anything to her. Not in the there and now, at least.

"I haven't forgotten at all," she said. She narrowed her eyes, metaphorical gears in her mind turning and grinding at the fast pace of her thoughts piecing things together. "Have you? Do you even remember doing it?"

Peter pulled back sharply and stood, moving away from her like he narrowly missed being bitten by a rattlesnake.

"You don't, do you. Did you even know what you were doing when you killed her?"

"Yes!" he said, growing furious.

Stiles took in the sight of him, and weighed the likelihood of him attacking her for what she was going to say next.

" _Lie_."

Peter sprung, claws out and eyes bright. He had his hand around her throat and was pressing her back down into the couch cushions before she had time to so much as flinch.

Peter snarled from mere inches away, but his fangs were nowhere to be seen.

Stiles laughed in his face.

Her heartbeat hadn't quickened, her scent hadn't soured. Maybe this act should frighten her, and normally it would have. Except an act was all it was, and Stiles could tell. She couldn't say how, but there was nothing about the way Peter was acting that made her feel like any of it was genuine. There was nothing prickling at her fear response. She didn't feel like she was in any danger at all.

Sure, maybe Peter really was _that good_ at faking it, at lulling her into a false sense of security. Maybe Stiles was doing what she said she wouldn't and trusting him too far. But she didn't believe it for a second.

"You're not going to hurt me," she said, oozing smugness.

"Why? Because you're _pregnant_?" Peter sneered, the tips of his claws just barely touching the vulnerable skin of her neck.

"I don't know. Maybe." Stiles pushed up into his hand. Peter's eyes widened slightly and, as she had expected, he moved along with her, never increasing or decreasing the pressure of his hold. "That's what I thought. You talk a good game, Peter. But the next time you're trying to aggressively threaten someone, maybe avoid cushioning their fall. Onto a _couch_ ," she mocked.

Peter growled deep in his throat, pulling away from Stiles as quickly as he'd pounced on her. He rolled his shoulders and arched his back a little to release tension, claws withdrawing back into his fingers.

"I remember an unknown alpha in my territory. A threat and an opportunity," he said quietly.

God help her, she believed him.

"I don't remember the details, not until after she was already dead." Peter's lip curled into a cruel sneer. "Although, I can't say if I had known who I was attacking that I would have done anything differently."

Stiles cocked her head and paused. Then she shrugged.

"Yeah, whatever." It wasn't that she didn't believe him. She just didn't really care. She was sure he had his reasons, even if murder was probably blowing things way out of proportion. She remembered _exactly_ how desperate he'd been to get payback for what had been done to his family.

Peter glared at her, but then his gaze sharpened to something more contemplative. His nostrils flared, breathing in deeply.

"You're _aroused_ ," he accused, sounding unimpressed.

Stiles shrugged, refusing to be embarrassed. "Yep." She pursed her lips in thought. Then the direction his mind might be going started to become clear to her. "Oh, ew, not because you're talking about killing your niece. I don't have a secret murder fetish, you freak," she said, making a face.

Stiles decided she didn't want to hear whatever Peter had to say about that and blustered on as she stood up.

"You're buying me a burn phone."

Peter stared at her. "And why would I do that?"

"Because I'm going to need to get in touch with you, and I don't want your number showing up on my family share plan, duh. You should probably get one for yourself, too, to cover both ends of the paper trail. Make sure they don't have GPS, or deactivate it right away. I left my cell phone at home today because my dad has the ability to turn on the GPS on mine remotely."

Peter was almost smiling at her.

"And don't start making plans for how to sneak money to me just yet, either. I need some time to come up with some alternative plans, just in case. And that might interfere with whatever I eventually decide to do about this."

"I daresay you're more concerned about anyone finding out than I am," Peter mused.

"Oh, whatever. You can still back out of this any time you want, you know. I might prefer to have your help, and I might prefer you to be in my kid's life, but I don't _need_ you. _We_ don't need you," Stiles said dispassionately, setting a hand on her stomach.

"Should I be offended?" He sure as hell didn't sound offended. He sounded entertained.

"You should probably be worrying about my sanity, since I just said I _want_ you around rather than just putting up with you because I have to."

Peter grinned and gave her a 'what can you do?' sort of gesture.

Stiles stared at him through narrowed eyes, then held out her hand.

"Give me twenty bucks," she said.

"Hitting me up for cash already? And after you just said not to give you any money." Despite his words, Peter was already heading over to where he'd dropped his wallet when they came in. "And what is it you need this for?"

Stiles wiggled her fingers in an obvious 'gimme' motion. Then, when she saw how much he had in his wallet, she said, "I changed my mind. Forty bucks."

Peter made a disbelieving sort of sound, but fished out two twenties and slapped them into her palm.

"I'm almost impressed by how mercenary you're being," he said.

"This," she said, waving the bills in the air before shoving them into her pocket, "is for the pregnancy tests I paid for. And the baby is craving curly fries." Stiles smirked, telling herself it was a vicious sort of smirk, and not a playful one. Because baby-daddy or not, she was _not_ flirting with Peter Hale.

"Oh, well, if the _baby_ wants curly fries, then by all means."

Unlike Stiles, Peter obviously wasn't referring to the fetus.

" _Mercenary_ ," Stiles continued, ignoring him completely and marching over to the sole shelf of books he had in his living room, "is me taking _two_ of your books."

Not that there was a whole lot to choose from. She'd really thought he would have more than this. Stiles looked over the the spines and plucked two at random, checking each in turn to make sure they were in English.

"I thought you only needed one to keep Derek off your back." Peter didn't sound pleased, exactly, but he wasn't trying very hard to get her to put them down, either.

"Yeah, for today. But I might need another for some other time. Deal with it."

"Are you going to be this demanding for the next six or seven months?" Peter asked, sounding bored.

"Ha! This isn't even me getting started. And try the next eighteen and a half years, buddy." Stiles shoved the books into her messenger bag and bent over to snag her sneakers, tugging them back onto her feet without bothering to undo the laces first.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Peter muttered to himself. "On the bright side," he said at a more conversational level, "it's becoming more apparent I fucked a greed demon instead of a child. I can't tell you how much of a weight has been lifted from me."

"Oh, please," Stiles said, pulling the strap of her bag across her chest, "like you've spared a single second to feel guilty about my age."

Peter bared his teeth at her in a mockery of a smile.

"True enough. Am I driving you back home, or are you going to insist on absconding with my car keys, too?"

"Nah. School's been out for almost half an hour. It's not like I live that far. Besides. I've got a date with a large order of fries."

Stiles didn't wait for whatever witty rejoinder Peter was going to volley back with and stepped out of his apartment, shutting the door behind her. That went... a lot better than it could have. By magnitudes.

Now she just had to figure out how to break the news to everyone else. And come up with a better excuse to feed her dad for skipping school than 'period cramps'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/questions/critique are all welcome and encouraged!


	5. not the mom friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _Isaac squinted. 'Is this an elaborate plan to poison us and take over the pack?'_ "
> 
> Stiles makes plans and begins to set them into motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah... this chapter is hideously late.
> 
> So. Funny story. When I posted this fic, I looked at what I already had written and went, ‘Yeah! I have seven chapters. I'll just dump the first four right away. _Why not_?' Maybe because when it came time to edit chapter five, I looked at it in horror and went, ‘Nope.' And had to do rewrites. Which is excruciatingly painful for me. So, yeah. Sorry?

* * *

**Thursday, April 14, 2011**

Stiles didn't know whether to be relieved or hurt by her dad's easy acceptance of her excuse for skipping school.

Stiles had gotten back home about an hour ago, and was in the middle of an essay for her English class. Scott had done her a solid by finding out what she had due in the few classes they didn't share and emailed her a list of all her assignments. The two of them might have been going through a rough patch, but he was forever her best bro.

He even told her that when Harris saw that she wasn't in, he gave the class a pop quiz. Unless she managed to get the absence excused, she wouldn't be allowed to make it up.

Even if she did get it excused, he'd probably just give her a quiz twice as difficult as the one he gave the rest of the class. That asshole got way too much enjoyment out of driving down her GPA.

Her stomach churned when the ringtone she had set up for her dad went off, but she steeled herself and picked up.

"Hey, Dad," she said, deciding not to aim for light-hearted and evasive for this conversation. After the day she'd had, she didn't think she'd have the energy to keep it up, anyway.

"You want to tell me why I got a call from your school telling me you were absent today?"

He sounded as emotionally exhausted as she felt. Fantastic.

"Yeah, sorry. I just—" Stiles broke off to pull the phone away from her face and sighed in disgust with herself. "I needed a mental health day.

It was her dad's turn to sigh, then.

"Did you have any projects due today?" he asked her.

"Nope," she said truthfully, eyeing the mass of papers littering her desk. "My final projects aren't due for at least two weeks."

"You miss any tests?"

Jeez. It felt like he was going off a checklist. What crappy reason did his delinquent daughter have for skipping school _this_ time?

"No, Dad. No tests." She didn't feel bad fudging the truth a little with that one. Harris' little vendetta against her notwithstanding, it was true enough. There hadn't been any tests or quizzes with _advance notice_. She'd picked a good day to skip.

"Fine. All right," he said. She could practically smell his disappointment through the phone. "No more absences for the rest of the school year. You only have a few weeks left."

"Yeah, of course," she said, mentally filing that away. She _really_ hoped there wouldn't be any supernatural emergencies before finals.

"And, Stiles? The next time you feel the urge to skip school anyway, do me the courtesy of letting me know. Don't try to hide it."

Her heart sunk. He wasn't even pretending to believe her. And while, yeah, she totally had skipped school, in a way it absolutely was a much-needed mental health day. Because if she hadn't avoided school to take a pregnancy test (or three), she'd have lost her mind.

Stiles thought about arguing the point, that she hadn't tried to hide it, that she was just waiting it out until someone else delivered the bad news about his kid's truancy. But what would be the point?

"Will do," she said, because what else was there _to_ say?

‘Sorry, Dad, I only skipped school because a grumpy werewolf told me I smelled pregnant and I needed to double check'?

There was a lull in conversation, neither side knowing what to say to the other. Eventually, her dad picked up the slack.

"I might be home late. Do me a favor and go to bed at a reasonable hour, okay?"

Stiles bit straight through her lip in an effort not to break her cell phone from holding it too tightly. She hissed in pain and immediately dropped the phone and reached over to the box of tissues she kept by her bed to mop up the blood as her skin knit itself back together.

"Stiles? Everything okay over there?" she heard her dad ask, a thin layer of concern threading through his voice.

"Fine, Dad," Stiles said, words muffled slightly by the tissue. "Just bit my tongue. And, yeah, totally, bed at a reasonable hour. Absolutely."

There was silence over the line for a solid ten seconds.

"Okay. I should get back to work. Unless you need anything?"

Well, at least he was trying.

"Nah, I'm good." What she really needed was a magic wand to fix how strained things had become between her and her dad. And she didn't think he had one of those.

The two of them exchanged good-byes as awkward as the rest of the conversation had proved to be. As soon as Stiles ended the call she was pressing her palms to her eyes and yelling in frustration and mentally telling herself that she wasn't going to cry. Tears wouldn't help. Tears, she knew, didn't do _shit_ , except make a bad situation worse.

It was just her luck that her day had been so much more stressful than a normal day of school could ever prove to be. Even Mr. Harris at his worst didn't have a hope of being more awful than Stiles becoming a teenage cliche.

She'd been way too close to tears way too many times to fill a month, let alone a single day. Stiles hoped today's near-misses with the waterworks wasn't an early indicator of what she'd be like later in her pregnancy.

The only silver lining was that at least her dad hadn't been angry, or grounded her, or anything like that. Even if she'd actually prefer that than the perpetual malaise of disappointment that hung around him when it came to Stiles these days. But it would have the distinct possibility of making her life more difficult.

Werewolfing was a full-time job, after all. One with bad pay and worse hours. Or maybe it was the other way around. Stiles had been going through a lot more gas for the jeep and ruining far too many articles of clothing beyond wearability ever since Scott had been turned.

She wondered if, since she'd accepted him as her Alpha and all, Derek would compensate for wear and tear on her clothing budget.

Yeah, right.

Stiles leaned back on her bed and pulled her shirt up under her breasts. Which were... looking a little bigger than usual, now that she thought about it. Stiles rarely bothered with regular bras; sports bras were the way to go. They were comfortable and didn't poke; they chafed less. And while she wasn't particularly big in the boob department to begin with, sports bras made a huge difference when it came to running for her life.

It's not like she usually had a reason to dress to impress. And, unlike Derek's werewolfy progeny, Stiles hadn't felt the need to sex up her look after becoming a werewolf.

So she hadn't been noticing the size of her breasts getting any bigger. It's not like they were filling up bra cups on the regular, where she would be more likely to see it. She _had_ noticed they were getting more sensitive, but she was sixteen. Stiles had figured that was normal. Final stages of puberty, or something.

Because, yeah, Stiles was _that_ girl, who had sex without a condom, who didn't take birth control, and _didn't_ panic when she skipped a period or two and immediately assume she was pregnant.

Maybe she _was_ kind of an idiot. How could she have _missed_ it? She stared at her belly, poking it a few times where she had slightly more surface area than she used to. So, maybe she'd put on a few pounds without really registering it as a thing. She had put it down to an increase in appetite from a combination of becoming a werewolf and no longer taking her meds. Her jeans still fit, which was all Stiles had cared about.

Of course, that wasn't going to last for much longer. Screw supernatural activity being hard on clothing; she was going to have to start buying new clothes soon to keep up with her ever-expanding waist size.

Something Peter was _absolutely_ going to be paying for.

"He'll probably want to pick out everything himself, the freak," she grumbled to herself, still a little sore about the way he'd cornered her at Macy's when she was shopping for the dance. His creep levels had been over 9,000 that day as he picked out her dress. The dress he had eventually ended up fucking her in.

"How is this my _life_ ," Stiles whined aloud, then sat up. "Nope. No wallowing." She had too much to do. Plans to formulate, appointments to book, information to research. She didn't have the luxury of burying her head in the sand and pretending everything was normal.

So, that was how Stiles spent the rest of her afternoon, alternating between homework and looking up pregnancy symptoms by the week. She wanted to hold off on making any doctor appointments until she could ask Derek and Peter if there would be any issue with her being a werewolf. Then again, Peter had spent six years in a human hospital, so it was probably safe.

Still.

Stiles just hoped she wouldn't be forced to get her prenatal care from a veterinarian.

* * *

**Friday, April 15, 2011**

The next day at school passed without major incident. At least Scott and Isaac's sniffers seemed no more sensitive than her own, because they didn't seem to pick up on any changes to her scent.

(Stiles was never going to get over that. Derek Hale telling her she smelled pregnant was seared into her mind and filed under ‘Stiles Fails at Werewolfing 101' for all eternity.)

After school let out for the glorious, glorious upcoming weekend, she snagged Isaac's wrist before he could run off.

Isaac's eyes lit up gold for a moment, and glared at her hand on him.

"You're so touchy," she said, awkward awareness hitting her a few seconds too late that he probably had good reason to overreact to being grabbed without warning.

"What do you want?" Isaac asked, pulling his arm out of her grip. He glowered down at her, but Stiles didn't feel the least bit intimidated by his glaring, or the rather impressive amount of height he had on her.

"You're coming over for Sunday dinner. Casa de Stilinski. You. Me. Derek, if he can stop brooding long enough to eat food instead of subsisting solely on doom and gloom."

Isaac stared at her like she'd lost her mind. Which, okay, wasn't entirely without cause. The two of them didn't get along, and Stiles and Derek in the same room usually involved a whole lot of metaphorical head-butting and not-always-metaphorical teeth snapping.

"Why?" he asked her, attitude waylaid in favor of incredulity.

"Um, because I said so. And reasons. Good reasons. Plus," she added quickly, " _food_." She ended the sentence with accompanying jazz hands.

"Sunday's the full moon," Isaac said.

Stiles eyes went big and round. "It _is_?" she gasped. "I had no idea."

"You want to have a pack dinner, at your house, on the full moon." Isaac rolled his eyes. "That sounds like a great idea."

"Sunday dinner. Late afternoon. Well before moonrise. Afterwards, the three of us can go frolic and reign in our murderous impulses," Stiles said, voice a tense, harsh whisper as she leaned in close. "It. Will. Be. _Fine_."

Isaac squinted. "Is this an elaborate plan to poison us and take over the pack?" he asked. She got the feeling he wasn't completely joking.

Stiles slapped a hand to her chest (ow, bad move, her perky pups definitely didn't appreciate that, wow, that oversensitivity was something she needed to get used to ASAP) and adopted a hurt expression.

"I am wounded you would leap to such a conclusion. If I wanted to get rid of the two of you, you'd never see it coming. I wouldn't go with something as transparent as a _poisoning_. Come on, Isaac, use your head."

By the expression on his face, that had been less than comforting. Well, whatever. Stiles didn't care.

"I'm serious about dinner, though. Poison-free, I promise. You get a free, home-cooked meal, and all you have to do is show up. Maybe act like you don't hate my guts if my dad shows up. That's it."

Isaac was all kinds of unimpressed with her, but miraculously, he shrugged in near acquiescence.

"Maybe if you tell me what you're plotting." Isaac's eyes darted around the hallway, which was almost empty from the end-of-day rush of students getting out of school as quickly as possible.

"Oh my god. Fine. I have very nefarious plans to have you and Derek over for dinner so I can try to convince my dad you're a couple of grumpy, but otherwise harmless kittens. Okay? If I'm going to be spending most of my free time around the two of you, I need a reason other than," Stiles made little clawing motions with her fingers. "And there's only so many lies and excuses even _I_ can come up with for where I am and who I'm with. I _get_ that you don't like me, but come on. Take one for the pack. _Food_ , Isaac. Remember the food."

Isaac rolled his eyes. Not super promising, Stiles thought.

"You want your dad, the sheriff, to know you're hanging out with two guys who've both been accused of murder."

"Uh, first of all, _wrongly accused_. I was the one accusing Derek the first time, and it was all Scott's fault the second time."

"So, a guy wrongly accused of _murder_ , and another guy wrongly accused of murder _twice_ ," Isaac clarified. The asshole was enjoying this, she knew he was.

"I mean, I think the emphasis should be on ‘wrongly', there, but I see what you mean. Look. I know how to handle my dad." Maybe. "You and Derek just need to suck it up, and eat my cooking, and let me take the lead." Stiles swallowed, and looked Isaac straight in the eye. "I'm kinda desperate here," she said, as much as she hated to admit it.

Things were strained enough between her and her dad as it was. The news she'd soon be dropping about her impending motherhood was going to go off like a bomb. But this, this was something she could do to make things run more smoothly now, _and_ would work to her advantage in the future. If she could pull it off.

Isaac shifted uncomfortably, then his expression softened just a touch.

"If you can somehow talk Derek into going along with this, I'll come."

Stiles' eyes widened. "Seriously?"

"But I get to be there when you try to convince him this is a good plan."

Stiles deflated slightly. "Oh, fine," she said. "You just want to watch me fail."

"Yeah. And if you don't, I get food. Win-win." Isaac was unrepentant.

"I hate you so much," Stiles grumbled. "Fine. Whatever. Let me grab my stuff from my locker and I'll drive us both to the loft. Pretty sure you've already missed the bus."

She almost missed the surprised, but pleased, expression that lit up on Isaac's face before he quickly smothered it down.

If the clenching of her heartstrings was Stiles suddenly feeling a maternal sort of concern over him, she was going to quickly come to regret that aspect of pregnancy. Stiles was _so_ not the mom friend. And Isaac was a dick.

Although, she thought as she rooted through her locker and liberated her books, pretty soon she would be the mom friend in the most literal way. Which was a daunting thought, but also one that made her feel warm and sort of gooey inside. Weird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/questions/critique are all welcome and encouraged!


	6. what does concern feel like?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _'That's supposed to convince me?' Derek asked, lifting his eyes to stare at the ceiling like he was asking for a divine power to strike him down. Or, more likely, strike_ her _down. Whatever._ "
> 
> Stiles and Derek have an unwanted discussion or two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with chapter titles!

* * *

**Friday, April 15, 2011**

"No."

Well, that had been quick. Stiles hadn't even managed to get a single word out and Derek was already shutting her down. She and Isaac had walked into the loft to find Derek reading a book, and as soon as her mouth opened to speak, Derek had cut her off.

"You don't even know what I was going to say," Stiles griped.

"Don't care," he said, placing a bookmark to keep his place, and snapped the book shut as he stood up. "It's you."

Stiles frowned. "You're hurting me in my feelings, Derek. In my _feelings_. You know I only have a few; they should be protected."

Weirdly, that seemed to kind of work? Derek sighed and gave her a knowing look.

Well, it looked like the sort of look that could be calling 'knowing'. She didn't know what it was _he_ knew that he thought _she_ knew. Or maybe she didn't need to be in the know? Stiles was confusing herself.

"What do you want, Stiles?"

"Good question," she said, dropping her backpack on the floor.

Isaac, the unfeeling jerk, had grabbed a can of soda from the fridge and was now watching the two of them with undisguised amusement as he loudly popped the tab and took a slurping sip.

"So," Stiles said. "We're a pack, right? I mean, okay, we're small and maybe we have our conflicts of personalities, but we're a _pack_." Stiles linked her hands together in full view. "Ohana."

Derek's glare was actually a little impressive.

"What do you _want_?" he repeated.

"Dinner!" she blurted out, words suddenly failing her.

The confused, scrunched up face Derek got in response to that was actually kind of adorable.

"You want me to buy you dinner," he said, more than asked. Stiles thought it was supposed to be a question, but it had gotten a little flattened out by Derek's inability to figure out the point she was trying to get to.

"No, I want you, and Isaac, to come over to my house on Sunday. And I will make dinner. For all of us. A pack dinner. Afterward, we can spend the full moon somewhere you can chain me up in the least sexy way imaginable."

Derek looked like he was doubting her intelligence even more than usual.

"And, before you say anything, I already had this conversation with Isaac. In order: no, the food will not be poisoned; no, I'm not plotting something sinister in general; yes, I have reasons why I'm doing this that aren't entirely about bonding as a pack; yes, I get that my dad might be there and it will be _so_ awkward. Like, the most awkward."

"That's supposed to convince me?" Derek asked, lifting his eyes to stare at the ceiling like he was asking for a divine power to strike him down. Or, more likely, strike _her_ down. Whatever.

"Oh, come on. I'm offering you free food. Plus, do you have any idea how you look to other people? Human, _normal_ people? Some weirdo living in a mostly-abandoned part of town who only hangs out with teenagers? You _need_ this, Derek."

"I need this?" he asks, leveling her with a dark look.

The thing is. The things _is_.

Okay, so. The thing is: Derek's face says he is contemplating using Stiles as a chew toy. Except, while no one would ever accuse Stiles of being good at the whole werewolf thing, there are a few scents she knows like the back of her hand. Better than the back of her hand, really, because who spends a lot of time studying the back of their hand? She's not exactly an expert on the backs of her hands.

But Stiles knows what fear smells like. She knows what anger smells like. She's gotten a lot better at picking out what it smells like when someone's lying through their teeth.

And Derek? Derek doesn't smell angry. If she had to take a wild guess, she'd say he's giving off more of an amused sort of scent than anything.

Which is why Stiles is almost positive Derek is messing with her.

"Oh my god. Derek. Buddy. Alpha. Pal. Do you want me to beg? Fine. _Please_ come over to my nice, warm, clean house where there are no holes in the walls, and eat a delicious, hot, free meal that you don't have to make for yourself. I get that this sounds suspiciously close to something nice, and you have a massive grudge against anything even remotely pleasant. It's okay. Isaac and I will both be there to hold your hands through the scary parts."

It's sort of hilarious how Derek looks even grumpier than before, but the smell of what Stiles is mostly sure is amusement is only getting stronger.

"In the process, you'll maybe make nice with the county sheriff, who, if we're lucky, will stop looking at you like you're dangerous and a bad influence. This will make my life about a thousand times easier in the long run, and let me tell you, I am stressed enough as it is, so _please_ pretend you give a shit and just do this for me."

Okay. So. Stiles got a little impassioned at the end there. In the 'I'm so upset I can't stop talking and also was my voice really that loud?' sort of way. And maybe slightly too honest, because Derek's looking at her with an almost guilty expression. And his eyes were definitely glancing more toward her midsection than her face.

"Fine."

"Really?" Isaac and Stiles both said at the same time. The two teenagers turned toward the other with identical dirty looks on their faces, then immediately turned away to face Derek instead. All in tandem. And while it was sort of embarrassing, if Stiles were one to be so easily embarrassed, now Stiles _knew_ the smell she'd been catching from Derek was amusement. The scent he exuded was a lot stronger now, and his face was even in mostly agreement with his emotions for once.

She was _pretty_ sure that was supposed to be a smile, or a smirk, or something along those lines.

"Really." Derek rolled his eyes, then shook his head like he couldn't believe he was going along with this. "What time should we be there?"

Stiles lit up with relief and even a smidgen of genuine, grade A satisfaction.

"Uh, two? I'll aim for dinner to be done around three, and we can watch some Netflix or something while it's cooking." Stiles looked at the guys. "What you're wearing is fine, but maybe leave the leather at home. I don't want you to look like you're trying, but I also don't want my dad thinking I've joined a gang. Okay?" Stiles didn't wait for a response. Just picked her bag up off the floor. "Okay. Sunday. Two o'clock. No leather. Bye."

And she was out the door.

She figured she was safe, but when she stopped to unlock her jeep and toss her backpack into the passenger seat, Derek walked out the building's outer door.

She contemplated jumping in and driving away before he could start with the judging looks and potentially invasive questions, but quickly shelved the idea as pointless. He'd be at her house in less than two days, anyway. By her own invitation no less.

"What can I do for you?" she asked, slamming shut the door.

Derek came closer, and he was wearing that expression that let her know he was concerned, even though it looked more like he was suffering from constipation. Maybe that what concern felt like for the guy. Who was she to judge?

He didn't say anything for a few moments, just staring at her. Well, looking at her. Stiles didn't think it could rightly be called 'staring' when his eyes kept dropping to her belly.

"Does he know?" Derek finally asked.

"'He' who?" Stiles looked up at the window into the loft. "Isaac? No."

"I wasn't talking about Isaac." Derek's frown deepened.

Stiles was feeling more uncomfortable by the second. "So, my dad? Or...." She trailed off and vaguely gestured toward her abdomen.

"Peter," Derek said.

And the world dropped out from under Stiles' feet.

"Why would I tell _Peter_?" she blustered. Unfortunately, her heart was racing, and the sound was like rolling thunder in her ears.

"Stiles." Derek looked up at the loft too, then, like he was weighing whether or not Isaac was eavesdropping from that far away. Then his gaze homed back in on her, apparently once he was satisfied that their conversation was private. "I could smell it on you, after. On both of you."

Stiles felt faint, wondering if this was what would finally kill her. Not an insane, rage-fueled alpha, nor bloodthirsty hunters with massive hateboners for werewolves, nor a douchebag teenager in murder-lizard skin. Just the world's most horrifying conversation with Derek Hale, talking about the sex she had with his insane, rage-fueled uncle a couple months ago.

"Oh," she said dumbly.

"I hadn't wanted to say anything. I thought it was best to let you decide when you were ready to talk about it, decide who you were comfortable telling. But now...." Derek looked like talking about this was physically painful.

And Stiles was getting a horrible feeling that maybe Derek thought something happened that _really_ didn't.

"You do get that he didn't—" _rape me_ were the words that should have come next, but they put such an awful taste in her mouth that she couldn't get them out. She changed tacks. "It was consensual."

Derek didn't look surprised.

"You're sixteen."

"Yeah, thanks for the reminder. I'd forgotten how old I am. I'm sixteen, and I'm telling you: it was consensual."

"I know what Peter's like. He's manipulative, and he'll do anything to get what he wants. You're young. And maybe you think—"

Stiles cut him off.

"Derek. You're not listening to me. It was consensual. I know what Peter's like, too. I knew _exactly_ who I was fucking when it happened. You can't compare it to—" Stiles bit her lip, knowing this was probably going way too far, but it had to be said. "You can't compare my situation with what Kate did to you."

Derek paled.

"And if you're ever at a place where you feel like you can talk about it? While I highly doubt I'm the person you'd want to go to, the offer's there. But you can't project _your_ experience with a manipulative psycho killer onto mine. Peter has never pretended to be anything but himself. I knew what I was getting into."

The distressed mix of scents hitting her were enough to make Stiles queasy.

"It doesn't change the fact that you're sixteen. You're too young."

Stiles gave Derek a sad smile. "Young, yes. Naive, no. I'm not some delicate little flower who is unaware just how scary the world can be," she said softly. "It's not like eighteen is some magical number that would make it any more okay from that standpoint. As for the legality of it? There are a whole lot of states where me having sex with Peter would have been considered legally consensual, too. Just not this one." She shrugged. "It was hardly the only illegal thing any of us were doing that night."

Stiles watched Derek carefully. He wasn't saying anything. He wasn't _doing_ anything. He just stood there.

"Please don't tell anyone," she said after a long, uncomfortable silence. "And yes, Peter knows. I told him yesterday." Her eyes were starting to tear up, and the uncomfortable sensation gave Stiles the urge to scream in frustration.

"Stupid hormones," she said instead with a self-deprecating laugh, rubbing her eyes dry before any moisture could drip down her cheeks.

"Do you know what you're going to do about it?" Derek grimaced. "If you need help, I can.... You can come to me. For help."

Stiles barked a laugh. It was shaky, but it was still a laugh.

"Don't sound so excited, big guy. And I think we're going to be okay. But thanks. Really."

Derek's eyebrows did a complicated dance. "We?"

"Me, and," Stiles pointed both of her index fingers inward toward her belly. "I'm keeping it. I want this."

To her everlasting surprise, Derek only nodded slowly at her confession. He didn't try to argue what a dumb idea it was. Didn't tell her it would be better to get an abortion, or give the baby up for adoption. Apparently he thought she was too young to fuck, but not too young to raise a baby. Or maybe he'd actually listened to her, and accepted what she'd said on the matter.

Not likely, but a girl could hope.

"Hey, you're going to be my kid's cousin!" she said, grin a bit manic as she tried to lighten the mood a little. "Gonna call me Auntie Stiles?" she teased.

Derek crossed his arms. "No."

He looked ready to slap her upside the head, but that awful odor that had been coming from him was easing up, slowly being replaced by that burnt-sugar smell of amusement. Stiles liked that _much_ better.

Oh, god, was she going to get scent-sensitivity from people's _moods_? Was it going to be that any time she walked past someone who smelled unhappy she'd get the urge to puke?

That would suck so much.

"Now, are you going to tell me why you're really inviting us over? What are you planning?" Derek asked, interrupting her thoughts.

Stiles made a face. "I have an amazing plan. It involves desensitizing my dad to your presence, so it's less weird and suspicious if anyone, like my _dad_ , sees me spending time around your uncle."

Derek grimaced. "You're doing this so you can spend time with _Peter_?"

"I'm doing this for a lot of reasons. One of them, yes, is so I can be around the guy who got me pregnant without people jumping to conclusions. Which would be bad. Especially if they're accurate conclusions."

Derek obviously didn't like her answer, but he didn't tell her she was being an idiot, or change his mind and refuse to come over that evening.

"Be careful around him," was all he said.

Stiles eyes widened slightly, but she nodded solemnly.

"Yeah, I get that."

Okay, so she'd laughed in Peter's face yesterday when he had his claws around her throat and pinned her to a flat surface, but, well. What Derek didn't know couldn't hurt him. Or Peter, for that matter.

"Good."

That was the end of that, apparently, because Derek turned and started walking back inside. He paused halfway to the door, then turned his head back to face her.

"I meant what I said. If you need help, I'm here."

And then he was gone.

Stiles breathed slowly, contemplating his words. Derek Hale. Secret marshmallow.

A very grumpy marshmallow with angry eyebrows, but a marshmallow nonetheless.

Who knew?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: This chapter also went in a completely different direction than I had intended while writing. Derek wasn't supposed to know about Peter. He wasn't going to find out for a while. But just as I got to the line where he was _going_ to ask if 'the father' knew, Derek took the reigns and told my intentions could go to hell. So, this happened. And I'm very glad it did.
> 
> Comments/questions/critique are all welcome and encouraged!


	7. strangulation or disembowelment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _'This is a nightmare,' she said, a bit faint. 'My entire life is a nightmare. I'm going to wake up, and the past three months will have been nothing but a dream.'_ "
> 
> Peter steps up his game. Stiles is, understandably, ungrateful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my friends for kicking me into action to keep working on this, and to everyone who's commented or left kudos. It not only means the world to me, but it's an excellent motivation to force myself to write.
> 
> Hope you all like this chapter!

* * *

**Friday, April 15, 2011**

Stiles was glad to be home. She was tired from school, tired from Derek's surprise ambush.

She hated it when people surprised her. Stiles prided herself on being able to read people, and Derek knowing about her and Peter had definitely been a surprise. He'd never even hinted that he knew what had happened between them that night, and now Stiles was inwardly cringing. It was one thing to have done what she did. It was a whole different issue that someone knew about it. Had _known_ about it since it happened, even.

She wondered what sort of person it made her, that she would have sex with someone like Peter Hale and only barely regret it. If she regretted it at all.

Stiles wasn't entirely sure that she did. It had been exciting, and she was glad that her first time had been a pleasurable experience and not some awkward, fumbling affair with a guy who didn't know what to do with his own body, let alone hers. There was more blood involved than she might have hoped for, but that turned out to be less of a drawback than Stiles would have expected.

She could still remember smelling the thick scent of blood as she shook with pleasure, adding a morbid backdrop to the sensation coursing through her. Perhaps 'morbid' was the wrong word. Not an incorrect word, but one that didn't properly convey how little it had bothered her at the time. Peter had pressed all the right buttons, played Stiles' body expertly, and the throbbing ache in her wrist and the scent of blood had been a heady addition to the experience. And wasn't that a pleasant thought?

What sort of person did that make her, indeed.

Stiles shook her head and huffed softly to derail her thoughts. There was enough weighing on her without adding how good sex with Peter had been. It was something best left forgotten, shoved into the recesses of her memory.

It wasn't like it was something she'd ever do again.

She picked up the mail as she headed into her house and riffled through it.

Bills, bank statement, junk mail, flyers. Stiles stared suspiciously at a thick envelope clearly sent from the school, and told herself it wasn't a notice being sent to her dad that she was failing all her classes and being forced to repeat the year. There was a small but roaring part of her subconscious that thought it was entirely possible. Rationally, she knew her grades weren't all As across the board, but still a perfectly respectable mix of As and Bs.

She might be barely hanging onto that 'B' in Chemistry, but Stiles was determined to give the proverbial 'fuck you' to Harris and ace the final. If she could pull that off, there was no way she'd drop any lower than a B, even with him marking down her participation. He claimed Stiles was 'disruptive to the class' or 'too easily distracted' or whatever bullshit excuses he used to justify lowering her grade in his class. Of course, he seemed to consider Stiles _breathing_ as something disruptive, or decided her tendency to chew on her pens meant she wasn't paying attention. Stiles thought she should count herself lucky he hadn't resorted to conveniently 'losing' her work. It wasn't something she'd put past him.

Well, at least she wouldn't have to deal with him anymore once summer vacation started. That was a plus.

Stiles carefully put the envelope in the pile with her dad's bills and set the stack on the kitchen counter where her dad would see it when he got home.

She tossed the junk mail, and opened the fridge, wondering what she should make for dinner that night. Nothing sounded good, and cooking _anything_ felt like too much work. She closed the fridge door and decided her rapidly dwindling energy would be better spent starting the homework she had for the weekend.

Unfortunately, when she walking into her bedroom, she saw something that startled her into dropping her backpack on the floor.

"What the _fuck_ , Peter," she said to herself as she stared in horror at the lurid pink package set on the middle of her bed. It even had an ostentatiously large bow topping the box.

And she knew Peter was to blame. Not only were there lingering traces of his scent in her bedroom, but he was the only person she knew who might be inclined to break into her house when she wasn't home and leave her a present. On her _bed_. Because Peter Hale apparently prided himself on being a massive creep.

Stiles leaned over the package and suspiciously prodded it with a finger. Not that she expected poking it would cause anything to happen. Narrowing her eyes, Stiles tore off the bow and peeled off the wrapping paper.

"You have got to be kidding me."

Stiles stared at the box in her hands in disbelief.

After a few moments of shock-induced inaction, she finally lifted it open and pulled out the phone nestled inside. The screen came to life as she picked it up with a notification on the screen telling her there was a text waiting to be read.

Stiles pulled it up and pursed her lips in irritation as she read the message.

' _You're welcome_ ' was all it said, but even that was enough to make her blood boil.

Stiles didn't stop to think before calling the number the text came from.

"Do you like your present?" Peter's voice came through, oozing smug satisfaction.

"Are you _insane_?" Stiles asked. There was a brief silence, so Stiles buckled down and added, "Or should that be _still_ insane?"

"Now, is that any way to speak to the nice man who bought you something pretty?"

Stiles wondered if she should choose strangulation or disembowelment when she inevitably murdered him for being such a monumental dick.

"I doubt you've ever been 'nice' a day in your life," she said automatically.

Peter tutted.

"And, for the record, when I told you to buy me a phone, I was talking about a cheap flip-phone, not an iPhone! What the _hell_ , Peter?"

Stiles sat down on the edge of her bed, finding her breath to be a bit short. Everything about this entire situation was ridiculous, from Peter's absurd spending habits to Stiles' overreaction. She was big enough to admit, to herself anyway, that she was slightly more upset than was strictly warranted. She was, right?

"It's the 32 gigabyte model," he said, like that explained anything, as though he was being helpful.

"I hate you."

"No, no," Peter said with an audible sigh. "This is the part of the conversation where you're supposed to say, 'Thank you for the incredibly thoughtful gift, Peter'."

"Thank you for breaking into my house and leaving me an expensive gift like a deranged stalker, Peter," Stiles cooed into the phone. "It's something I'll _never forget_."

"Be honest, are you a Windows girl? It might be a dealbreaker for me."

"Oh my god!" Stiles turned and threw herself face-first into her bedspread, muffling her scream of frustration. She lifted her head and let out an exasperated groan. "Do you make a special effort to be this irritating, or does it come naturally to you?"

"Every conversation with you is special, Stiles," Peter all-but purred.

"This is a nightmare," she said, a bit faint. "My entire life is a nightmare. I'm going to wake up, and the past three months will have been nothing but a dream."

Peter hummed thoughtfully. "I _would_ make for interesting dreams, wouldn't I?"

Stiles felt herself flush, mind instantly thrown back to the numerous filthy dreams that plagued her nights during Peter's short-lived death.

"A _horrible_ , unending dream," she insisted. It probably would have had more effect if her voice hadn't sounded so strangled.

"I'm starting to think you don't appreciate me, Stiles."

"Gee, I wonder how you'll ever be able to sleep at night," she said.

Stiles expected to hear a snappy retort that never came. Did she go too far? Was that a touchy subject?

She kicked off her sneakers and moved further up onto her bed, curling up on her side. Peter still wasn't saying anything.

"Thank you for the phone," she said at last, taking care to limit the level of sarcasm in her tone so as not to come across entirely insincere.

"You're welcome," Peter said.

She didn't know what his game was. Stiles would have expected him to sound victorious that she finally gave in and thanked him. Instead, his voice was warm. Gentle, almost. If that was at all possible for Peter.

Stiles supposed it was definitely possible, just not something she expected from him.

"So," she said, deciding to ignore it and move on, "I wanted to ask you. Um. Can I make a doctor's appointment? For the, you know."

"Go ahead," Peter said immediately. "I'll take care of the bill, unless you're still worrying about the money linking us together."

"What?" Stiles was momentarily confused. Then she remembered ordering him not to help her pay for anything just yet. "Oh, right. Uh. No, I figure you know how to be shady enough to avoid that kind of thing." She paused, then asked, "You _do_ , right?"

"That's not something you need to worry about," Peter told her, sounding amused.

"Right. Good." Why was this so awkward? "That's not what I meant, though. I was wondering if there would be any problems? Being a werewolf and all? I guess not, since—" she almost said, 'since you spent all that time in the hospital,' but caught herself before it slipped out. She doubted he'd appreciate the reminder. "Since you haven't said anything."

"There shouldn't be any issue with you seeing a doctor. It's rarely an issue; most blood tests won't pick up anything abnormal in us. When they do, it tends to be ignored." Good to know. "However, we will need to find you a midwife who's in the know, preferably one who is also a werewolf. But that's because I doubt you'll be able to control your shift during labor."

"Well, that's just rude."

Peter chuckled. "It's nothing personal. Even women born as werewolves find it difficult to go through childbirth without something of their true nature coming out. All of Talia's children were delivered at home."

Stiles could hear the melancholy in his voice and decided not to ask for more detail. No matter how badly she wished to know more about what she had to look forward to.

"Was there anything else you needed?" Peter asked, changing the subject for her.

"Not unless you want to make me dinner and do my homework for me," she said. Stiles wasn't exactly overjoyed to talk with Peter any longer than necessary, but it was still better than writing a three page paper for Economics.

"I think I'll pass," he said. Stiles could imagine the sneer that probably accompanied the words.

"Oh no, whatever shall I do," she deadpanned. "And here I thought you were trying to be helpful."

"You might be surprised at just how helpful I'm willing to be." It should have been illegal, how suggestive his words sounded.

Oh, wait. It very nearly _was_ illegal.

Stiles snorted. "I don't think I'd be surprised at all. Perv."

"Who are you calling a pervert? You're the one who took a completely innocent remark and—"

Stiles made an executive decision not to let him finish that sentence.

"Oh, by the way, Derek knows you got me pregnant. Have fun with that. Later." Stiles ended the call with extreme prejudice.

(She absolutely did _not_ cackle when Peter called her back immediately after, which she ignored. She also didn't smirk, not even a little, when he texted her afterward. The message contained only a single word: _Brat_. Stiles figured that was actually kind of fair, and resisted the urge to respond with a string of nonsensical emojis. Mostly because that would only reinforce what he'd called her.)

She stared at the stupidly expensive phone in her hand, trying to decide what she should do with it. Leaving it lying around out in the open pretty much defeated the purpose of having a separate phone to get in touch with Peter. Then the perfect hiding place hit her like a bolt of lightning. Stiles grabbed her backpack and opened up the front pocket. Inside was a zippered foam pouch, which was supposed to be a makeup bag. Stiles had only ever used it to hold a handful of tampons and a spare pad or two in case of emergencies.

The majority of the tampons went into her nightstand— it wasn't as if she'd be needing them for herself, after all— and that left plenty of room for the phone to fit inside. She turned it to silent and tucked it inside, zippering the bag back up. Problem solved.

Skullduggery completed, Stiles got to work on her mind-numbingly boring mountain of schoolwork, only stopping to take a break when her stomach began growling. She stood, stretched, and dragged her feet into the kitchen. While her head was buried inside the refrigerator, trying to remember how old some of the abandoned leftovers were, the doorbell rang.

Naturally, she lifted her head at the sound and hit the top of her head. Stiles swore loudly and rubbed the sore spot, grateful for superhuman healing. That _hurt_.

She told herself that whoever was at the door better have a damn good reason to be there.

To her surprise, it was a supremely awkward looking Derek. The expression on his face told her he'd rather be almost anywhere else.

"Uh, hi?" she said as she stared at him in confusion.

"Here," Derek said, shoving a paper bag at her. Stiles narrowly avoided dropping it. It was heavier than she'd anticipated.

"Thank you?" Did she have a sign on her back that read: 'now accepting strange packages from hot, older weirdos' or something?

"Don't ask," Derek mumbled. The poor guy actually looked sort of traumatized, now that she gave him some consideration apart from, ' _what is he doing here?_ '.

"I'm so confused right now," she said. "What is it I'm not supposed to ask?" Stiles lowered the bag to try to peer inside. Was that tupperware? "Okay, now I'm really confused."

Derek sighed. She figured he was probably regretting ever having met her. Knowing Derek, he was probably regretting it for the fiftieth time by now.

"It's food. From _Peter_ ," he said, aggrieved. "I'm not making a habit of this, I don't know why I'm even doing this at all." His eyebrows were telling Stiles, 'I hate Peter, I hate you, I hate my life'.

Derek had marvellously expressive eyebrows.

"Ohhhkay," Stiles said slowly. Nothing he said made any sense to her, but sure, _Derek_ was making a delivery of food to her house, which _Peter_ apparently _cooked_ , and the earth was definitely rotating backwards and Stiles was waiting for the inevitable apocalypse and hoard of zombies to come shambling down the street while denizens of Hell took up ice skating and pigs were flapping their tiny piggy wings.

"I mean it. Don't expect this to become a regular thing."

"Dude," Stiles said, with feeling, "I have no idea what is going on."

Derek stared at her, unimpressed.

"Okay, you just told me what's going in. But, and here's the thing, the words you said _don't make any sense_!" Stiles was gripping the bag tightly enough that it was beginning to tear. She loosened her grip and quickly shifted her hold on it so nothing fell out.

Derek nodded slowly. Then, to her complete and utter frustration, turned around and got back into his car. And drove away. With Stiles, still standing in the doorway, awkwardly holding a bag of food.

"How is this my _life_." Stiles sighed, and stared hard into the bag. She figured it should be safe to eat, at least. Assuming Peter actually knew how to cook. She put odds at a fifty/fifty shot, and Stiles was hungry and lazy enough to chance it.

She started to head back inside when the hair on the back of her neck suddenly stood up straight. Stiles whipped her head around, looking behind her to see what was getting her hackles up. There was nothing to be seen and no one was there. Her heart was pounding fast from instinctual fear and her skin was prickling with goosebumps. But she couldn't see or hear or smell _anything_ that could be causing it.

"Get it together, Stilinski," she told herself in a whisper. There was nothing to be afraid of. Nothing at all.

She didn't waste any time in getting inside, though. And if she locked the door, turned the deadbolt, set the food down, and did the same with the back door, then checked all the locks on every window? Well. There was no one there to see her indulging in her baseless paranoia.

No one at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: The iPhone out in early 2011 was the iPhone 4, its largest possible memory size was the 32g model, and it cost $700. Thank you, internet.
> 
> Confession: This is one of those chapters where I _almost_ regret the choice to make this story solely from Stiles' PoV. For whatever that's worth.
> 
> Also! I'll be away visiting family from the 6th through the 16th. I'll try to get some writing done, and hopefully post while I'm away, but I can't make any promises.  
>    
>    
> Comments/questions/critique are all welcome and encouraged!


	8. maternal nesting habits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _'_ Derek's missing, _' Scott said, actually sounding a little worried._ "
> 
> Stiles prepares to have her house invaded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as I had feared, this chapter is delayed. Being away + bad weather + stress = this writer not doing any writing. My apologies.
> 
> Next chapter may also be slightly delayed, depending on how much I can get written this week. I won't be home until tomorrow night, then I have a lot to do this week before I'll have time to commit to writing.
> 
> Bad news out of the way. New chapter! Hope you all enjoy.

* * *

**Sunday, April 17, 2011**

Stiles figured there was about a ten percent chance that her foray into meal-based pack building would go more-or-less according to plan, a twenty percent chance the outcome would be tolerable, and a seventy percent chance it would all blow up in her face. Spectacularly. In the way of shouting matches, broken dishes, and possible dismemberment.

Which, considering how her life had been going for the past few months, were pretty damn good odds.

Between the issues between her and her dad, the fact that Isaac and she barely tolerated one another on a good day, and Derek being, well, _Derek_ , Stiles' hopes weren't too high. All of that was even before factoring in the fact it was the full moon. Stiles' control was an embarrassment to all werewolfkind to begin with. And with the added stress piled on her lap over the past few days, she wasn't feeling particularly confident that she wouldn't wolf-out in front of her dad if things turned sour.

Maybe a seventy percent failure rate was being too generous.

Stiles tried to shelve those thoughts, pushing them aside in favor of worrying her fingers over her steering wheel. She'd gone out that morning for a long run in the preserve, feeling the need to rid herself of an overabundance of nervous energy. It had been nice. Fresh air filling her lungs, soft dirt under her feet, gentle light dappling through the tree cover.

There was something soothing about going for a run _without_ the reason behind it being 'fleeing for her life'. It wasn't an activity she'd had much time for lately, and the spring weather was perfect for it. Stiles was going to miss running track in the fall.

There were a lot of things she was going to miss. But she knew, knew it like she knew her dad loved her, like she knew how hard you had to work at family, like she knew exactly how worth it all that work was, that she was making the right choice in having her baby. Such a tiny thing inside her, rapidly growing, and her heart swelled with love whenever she took a moment to stop and think about what her life would be like when it was born.

She didn't care how difficult things would get, didn't care that no one would understand. Stiles was ready for the judgmental looks and stares, ready for sleepless nights and exhaustion. If her mother's illness had taught her anything, it was the importance of family. Of protecting her family. She'd learned years ago, learned the hardest way there was, just how far she'd go to keep her family safe. And this baby was hers. Hers to love, hers to care for, hers to protect.

What anyone else thought about her for it didn't matter. What she'd have to sacrifice to be a mother didn't matter. She'd changed her _species_ to be able to have this opportunity, and Stiles refused to squander it.

Derek had once told Scott that the Bite was a _gift_. Derek didn't know how true that was for Stiles. It was the best gift she ever could have received. The difficulties she had with it, the danger inherent in being something supernatural in Beacon Hills? Paled in comparison to what it gave her in compensation.

Stiles was smiling as she pulled into the driveway by her house. Unfortunately, her little bubble of serenity was broken by the sound of her cellphone ringing. The ringtone she'd set up for Scott was blaring through the speaker, and a chill of dread went up Stiles' spine, ruining her good mood. But she couldn't _not_ answer it.

"Hey, what's up?" she said into the receiver. She grabbed her bag off the passenger seat and climbed out.

" _Derek's missing,_ " Scott said, actually sounding a little worried.

"Wait, what?" she asked. Stiles had just seen Derek less than an hour ago, the two of them crossing paths in the preserve, but neither one of them feeling the urge to stop and chat. How could the guy manage to disappear in the past forty-five minutes? If anyone could do it, it'd be Derek— the poor guy had the worst sort of luck— but still. It seemed pretty unlikely.

" _I went by the warehouse and he wasn't there. And it seemed like he hadn't been there for a while._ "

Oh.

Huh. Stiles would have thought Isaac might have told Scott that Derek had finally decided that the life of a squatter wasn't for him and got a place. Or at least got sick of Stiles whining about tetanus and her repeatedly voiced opinion on Derek sharpening his serial killer vibe and got a place. (It didn't matter that werewolves couldn't get tetanus. It was the principle of the thing.)

Of course, the loft was only a minor upgrade, but Stiles figured she shouldn't try to push the guy too far out of his comfort zone too fast. His comfort zone clearly being dilapidated buildings no sane person with money willingly inhabited, but whatever.

"Uh, yeah, about that..." Stiles said, feeling uncomfortable spilling the beans. This was Scott, but she also didn't want to betray her pack. More specifically her alpha, but so far Stiles' track record of following Derek's orders was more along the lines of 'when I want to', rather than any strong instinct to submit. Put one in the 'pros' column for her lack of control, she supposed.

But it made her feel uncomfortable, doing anything that might betray her pack. Not only on an instinctual level, but also because no one had ever accused Stiles of being disloyal by nature. The opposite, in fact. And Scott had already lied about being pack and betrayed Derek once.

As much as Stiles could sympathize with Scott, could understand _why_ he did what he did, it felt like a betrayal to her as much as to Derek. _She_ had joined the pack. For real. No fake-outs, no take-backs. And Scott had never confessed to her that he was only doing it to look like he was going along with Gerard Argent's schemes.

So now Stiles was wedged in tight between a rock and a hard place. Pack, and Scott. She hated it. And she resented the hell out of Scott for putting her in this position.

Resented the hell out of Scott for siding with Allison instead of having Stiles' back.

" _Wait, do you know where he is?_ " Scott asked, after a few seconds of silence passed.

Stiles put her key into the door of her house and carefully let herself in while she considered what she should say. The last thing she needed was to lose her temper and snap the key, or break the door.

"Why do you even care? You hate Derek."

Stiles dropped her bag on the couch and went to pour herself a glass of milk. That was good for babies, right? Yay, calcium.

" _You used to hate him too,_ " Scott said accusingly, dodging the question.

It wasn't entirely true, anyway. Stiles had definitely resented Derek's presence in their lives, yeah. She'd been a little afraid of him, and she sure as hell hadn't trusted him. At all. So, okay, she'd made more than a few remarks about hoping he'd drop dead, or disappear off the face of the planet.

But Stiles was prone to hyperbole on the best of days, and Scott knew that.

"Whatever," she said dismissively. "Derek isn't missing. He found a moderately less creepy place to live. That's it."

" _Where?_ " Scott demanded.

"Oh my god, Scott. I'm done. I am so done with this conversation. I'll tell Derek you've been looking for him—"

" _What? No!_ " he said, interrupting her.

Stiles ignored him, growing more uncomfortable with this conversation with each passing second.

"—and I'll let _Derek_ decide if he wants you to know where he is."

The line went quiet. Stiles busied herself with pulling a few things out of cabinets.

" _You can't trust Derek. I don't get why you're acting like this. I'm your_ best friend _,_ " Scott said desperately. " _Ever since Peter bit you, you haven't been yourself, Stiles. This isn't you._ "

"Thanks for the input. 'Preciate it. Bye, Scott." Stiles hung up, carefully tossing her phone on the counter and only barely holding back a growl of irritation.

Then she grabbed her phone back up and pulled up Derek's number.

She did _not_ feel up to calling him, so she decided to text him instead, tapping it out one-handed while she drank her milk.

' _fyi scott's looking for you._ '

Stiles was rinsing out her glass when her phone chimed.

' _Why_ '

Rolling her eyes, Stiles quickly responded. ' _no idea._ '

There was no response forthcoming, but Stiles knew Derek well enough to know that wouldn't be the end of it.

"He's waiting to grill me about it in person," she mumbled to herself as she started preparations for their dinner.

She didn't mind spending the time to make something that required a little more effort than usual. Stiles started with a homemade tomato sauce, with canned tomatoes, not from scratch. Even if she had the time for that, she definitely didn't care enough to put in that much work. Once she had that covered and going on a low simmer, she started slicing large, thin cuts of chicken breast, which she packed away into the fridge in a plastic bag.

Feeling satisfied once her prep work was done, Stiles checked the time. She still had a couple of hours before the guys arrived, which was perfect. A shower desperately needed to be on her immediate agenda, and there were plenty of things she could get done around the house in the meantime.

One relaxingly hot shower later, Stiles was feeling refreshed and comfortable. Unfortunately, after getting dressed and looking around the house, she realized she wasn't going to have an opportunity to capitalize on that feeling. The house wasn't a mess, per se, but it had been a while since either she or her dad had done any major cleaning around the place.

And, for some reason Stiles wasn't comfortable dissecting, she didn't like the idea of having Isaac and Derek over without putting in a little effort to make the place more homey. So, having decided to pull up her big girl pants and get her hands dirty, Stiles got to work. She cleaned the kitchen until it was sparkling. The table was covered in various papers and bills, which she stacked up and relocated. She dusted.

Stiles even fluffed the damn throw pillows on the couch, very carefully not thinking about maternal nesting habits. It would break her brain if she allowed herself to admit that was what was happening here.

Stiles had just finished wrapping the cord around the vacuum cleaner when she heard Derek's Camaro rolling up to the house. She looked down at herself, a little grungy from housework and a little splattered from tending to the red sauce, and groaned inwardly.

Had she really just spent the last two hours doing housework? For what? To impress two assholes who, as of late, were accustomed to living out of abandoned buildings?

Stiles threw open her front door and said, loud enough for her voice to carry, "Door's open."

Then she darted back inside to rush into her bedroom and grabbed a clean shirt. She considered taking a two-minute shower to rinse off, but thought that would be trying too hard. Kind of like going on a cleaning binge had been.

So, after a fresh application of deodorant, Stiles changed sports bras and tugged on a shirt and a lightweight pullover hoodie. Cleaning was one thing; Stiles was not going to get completely ridiculous and dress up for this shindig.

"You guys want something to drink?" she asked as she headed back out to the living room. Derek and Isaac were standing around looking vaguely uncomfortable but obviously doing their best not to let it show.

Stiles figured if this was going to be a pack-building type of thing, she shouldn't treat them like guests any more than she would Scott. Well, maybe a little more than she would Scott. But only because Scott was pretty much family at the Stilinskis', and had been for years. They'd work up to it.

"Go ahead and check the fridge; pick whatever you want. I'll grab glasses."

This was weird, right?

Having them there, in her home. It was definitely weird. Not bad, necessarily. But the sudden feeling of mild anxiety hit her nonetheless. The guys seemed to mirror her sentiments. So at least she wasn't alone in feeling that way.

She got them settled down on the couch with some Netflix running from her her laptop to the television and quickly excused herself to get back to cooking. She could hear the TV just fine from the kitchen, and Isaac had chosen an episode of a sci-fi show she'd already seen, so she wouldn't be missing anything.

Derek joined her as Stiles set the oven to preheat and was pulling a few things out of the fridge.

"Oh holy god," she gasped, when she turned around and saw him looming. "Don't sneak up on me like that."

Derek looked unimpressed.

"You should be more aware of your surroundings," he said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

" _You_ should wear a bell," she grumbled under her breath as she got to work on breading the chicken.

"What did Scott say to you?"

She summarized the conversation she'd had with Scott earlier, purposely leaving out the way they'd ended it. She didn't want to talk about it, and had no interest in badmouthing him to Derek, of all people.

"So, what do you want to do, o' alpha, my alpha?" she asked as she washed her hands, a sarcastic tinge coloring her words.

Derek shrugged. "Is he back with Allison?"

"Ugh," Stiles said. With feeling. "I don't even know. I hope not. Last I heard, they're on a possibly permanent break? Who knows with those two. But Scott told me Allison and her dad are going to spend the summer in France or something. So that'll be nice. I'm totally down for an Argent-free summer vacation."

Derek didn't respond, just watching her move around the kitchen. The chicken went into the oven to bake, and Stiles filled up a huge pot with water from the tap. She put it on to boil, then checked on the spaghetti sauce, using the lid like a shield to keep from getting splattered again while she stirred it.

"You can't make the water boil any faster by glaring at it," she remarked, smirking when he turned his gloomy stare from the stove over to her.

"Be careful with what you tell him," Derek told her, ignoring what she said.

"Uh, yeah. I know." Stiles was mildly offended that Derek thought she needed to hear it. She was more irritated that caution was necessary with Scott at all, though. Not that that was Derek's fault. Or, at least, not totally his fault. She still maintained that if he'd been less of a creepy authoritarian asshole, Scott would have less of a problem with him. Not that she'd say it to Derek's face.

Not when he was in her house, anyway. She didn't want to have to try to explain broken furniture to her dad.

"Doesn't hurt to be reminded," Derek said, following Stiles back into the living room.

She dropped down on the couch next to Isaac, who shot her a weird look.

"What? My house. My couch. This is where I sit."

Isaac shook his head. "That's not— I wasn't going to— Whatever." Isaac huffed a little, sinking further into the couch cushions.

Stiles wondered if she should corner Isaac later and ask him why he was being weird, but decided she didn't, in fact, care all that much. Instead, she snuggled into her hoodie and kept an ear out for the water while she let herself relax as she watched the show Isaac had put on.

But Isaac kept throwing her strange, speculative looks every so often, like there were words on the tip of his tongue he couldn't bring himself to let loose. Stiles shifted uncomfortably under the weight of his attention.

Derek didn't notice anything amiss. Or he didn't seem to, anyway. Who knew when it came to him? He could just as easily be ignoring Isaac's weirdness. Like Stiles was _trying_ to do.

Maybe she _would_ talk to him privately later that day. Whatever it was he had to say, she figured he was only keeping quiet because he didn't want Derek to hear.

Did she smell bad? Stiles discreetly lifted the collar of her hoodie to sniff herself. Well, it wasn't that. Unless Isaac was picking up on the pregnancy hormones, or pheromones, or whatever it was that made her reek to the Hales in her life.

Ew. She'd just thought of Peter as being in her life. Not that it was untrue, because, well, he was. Would be so even more than she'd ever anticipated before the baby-bombshell. But, come on. 'In her life' almost made it sound like she cared about him. Which she did _not_.

Stiles would feel a lot better once the water was boiling and she had an excuse to get away from Isaac's paranoia-inducing looks. And could stop thinking about Peter Hale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I were so inclined, this is the point of the fic where I would add the tag: 'Scott is a Friend'. Not a 'good' friend, not a 'bad' friend. Just a friend. A friend who cares, who fucks up, who shows concern, who can be pushy. I am trying to be as fair to Scott throughout this fic as possible, and do his friendship with Stiles justice while not sugarcoating their problems. Which, btw, are on both sides of the friendship equation.
> 
> Comments/questions/critique are all welcome and encouraged!


	9. an act of mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _'Heya, Dad,' she said casually, twisting in her seat. 'I invited a couple friends over for dinner. Hope you don't mind.'_ "
> 
> Stiles & co. have an awkward family dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Thanks so much to all of you who leaves a comment, a kudos, a bookmark. I appreciate each and every one so very much.  
>    
>    
> This is where I apologize for the huge delay. Again.
> 
> Sorry.

* * *

**Sunday, April 17, 2011**

The tell-tale sounds of water popping and bubbling were the sweetest music to Stiles' ears.

Barely restraining herself from leaping to her feet, she headed into the kitchen to turn over the chicken and pour a couple boxes of pasta into the boiling water. Whatever remained after everyone ate their fill could be packed away for leftovers, and it was always better to have too much than not enough when it came to a werewolf's appetite.

If the previous full moon was any indicator, by the time she came crawling home tonight she would be willing to devour anything that looked even remotely like food. Of course, last full moon she was involved in a creepy, magical ritual to raise the dead which may have attributed to that, but still. Leftovers, man. _Leftovers_.

Stiles chose to linger in the kitchen, soaking in the warmth emanating from the stove and the calming scents of comfort food. When the episode ended, Stiles decided to put the boys to work. If her dad was home to see it, he would probably have been resigned to her lack of good hosting manners, but this was pack. They should consider themselves lucky that she wasn't going to make them do the dishes, after.

"Plates and bowls, silverware," she said, pointing to the appropriate cabinet and drawer as she spoke. "Set the table for four. Don't know if my dad will show up, but..." Stiles trailed off and punctuated the sentence with a shrug.

It was kind of funny to see Derek setting out silverware, actually. Which was sad. The state of his life had gotten to be where Stiles found it more natural to see Derek bleeding than setting a table.

"Bowls or plates? Or both?" Isaac asked, looking equally out of his element. But that could probably be put down to being at Stiles' house, specifically.

"Whichever. It's spaghetti and chicken parmigiana, so." Stiles shrugged as she stood over the oven, covering each piece of chicken with a thick layer of provolone and mozzarella. "Both, if that's what you want. Set out a plate for my dad, though."

She put the chicken under the broiler and drained the pasta before tossing it with a little olive oil. Isaac hovered nearby, watching her every move. It was a toss-up whether he was staring because he was a ravenous teenage werewolf, or because he was surprised she knew how to cook.

"Uh," she said, blanking as she stared over at the table. Something was missing. Oh, right. "Isaac, be tall and grab me that huge serving bowl on the top shelf, would you?"

"Be _tall_?" Isaac muttered under his breath, but did as she requested.

Out came the chicken, which she plated up and made Derek take to the table. Then the pasta, which went into the serving bowl, and Isaac took that one. Stiles fished out the bay leaf and put the sauce into a ceramic mixing bowl, which Derek brought out, since Isaac was refilling everyone's glasses. Without being prompted. Stiles had the strangest urge to pat his head and call him a good boy.

Stiles grabbed serving utensils and parmesan cheese from the fridge, then joined them at the table.

It was nice, she thought. Weird, but nice. She liked this, having a meal together that didn't come out of take-out boxes, or just making something for herself with enough left over for whenever her dad got home from work. Sure, sometimes her dad was home for dinner, but they usually sat in the living room while they ate.

It was also sort of awkward, though, but that came as a surprise to exactly no one.

"Well?" she asked, staring at the two of them as they all sat around the table with empty dishes. "Take some food, guys. I cooked. That doesn't make me your servant."

"No one would ever confuse you for anyone's servant," Derek snarked, but started filling his bowl with a heaping helping of spaghetti, so Stiles counted it as a win. It's not like that was actually an insult.

After a few minutes, Stiles toyed with a forkful of pasta and asked, "So how is it? I think the powdered wolfsbane adds a needed touch to the spaghetti sauce."

Derek dropped his fork and was so close to spitting his food back out, when it obviously occurred to him that Stiles had covered all her food in the sauce. The glare he aimed her way would have been impressive if he hadn't shoveled so much spaghetti into his mouth that he very nearly had chipmunk cheeks.

Isaac started snickering into his food, the top half of his body hunched over his plate. Easy for him to be so amused: _he_ hadn't taken any sauce.

"You're a terrible person," Isaac told her, almost approvingly.

"Yes, thank you," Stiles remarked primly. "I know." But she was grinning.

Derek was scowling at the both of them now, while he wiped his face with a napkin.

"It's good, thank you," Derek ground out. Poor guy was at least making an effort.

"Yeah, it's really good, thanks," chimed in Isaac automatically. He was already starting on his second piece of chicken.

"So," Stiles said, drawing the word out, "this is something we could do again? Maybe even as a semi-regular kind of thing?"

Derek huffed a little, but it sounded at least vaguely amused. To Stiles' surprise, it was Isaac who immediately agreed.

"Yeah, okay."

It wasn't exactly a ringing endorsement, but it was from Isaac, who barely tolerated her most of the time. To be fair, she felt the same way about him.

She looked to Derek and prodded him in the bicep. He seemed to be considering it.

"All right," he said eventually, staring down at his food, pushing it around with his fork. He seemed to be on the verge of having something more to say, when he suddenly tensed.

Stiles stretched out her senses in response, and heard the sound of her dad's vehicle making its way down the block.

"Well, this dinner is going to get a whole lot more interesting real fast," Stiles mumbled to herself. She was pretty sure her dad wouldn't freak out too badly. Well, not about Isaac being there. She wasn't so certain about how he'd react to Derek Hale sitting at their dinner table, though.

Time stood still.

At least, that was how it felt.

Stiles could hear the way her dad's car slowed down as it reached the house. Normally he'd park, gather up whatever files he brought to work on to justify spending his lunch hour at home on a weekend shift, and immediately head inside. Not this afternoon. The car was still, but the engine stayed on.

Then again, Derek Hale's rather distinctive Camaro wasn't normally parked outside their house.

It took an agonizing few minutes of tense silence around the dinner table for the front door to open.

Isaac looked ready to jump out of his seat, eyes darting from his plate, to Stiles, to Derek, and back to his plate on repeat. Derek, on the other hand, was acting as though he wasn't at all nervous. But Stiles was slightly concerned that the fork he held clenched tight in his hand would never look the same again.

The three of them heard the sound of a set of keys being set down and a moment later the sheriff walked into the room. That was how Stiles thought of the situation. 'The sheriff'. Because once he saw whose car was parked out front, there was no way he'd be coming into this situation as just Stiles' dad.

"Stiles."

"Heya, Dad," she said casually, twisting in her seat. "I invited a couple friends over for dinner. Hope you don't mind."

"Right," her dad said. "Stiles? With me." It wasn't a request.

Stiles got up and followed her dad to his bedroom and shifted her feet awkwardly in the doorway while he stood just inside and stared at his daughter with thinly veiled suspicion in his eyes.

"Wasn't aware you were friends with Derek Hale. In fact, I distinctly recall you recently telling me how you barely know him." He did not sound happy about this turn of events, but he didn't look pissed, either. Not yet, anyway.

"We're... new friends?" Stiles said, wide-eyed. "Isaac is friends with Scott. They play lacrosse together."

Lying to her dad rarely went over well, and he had the uncanny ability to pick up on Stiles' lies better than most of the werewolves she knew. Was it an over-simplification? Sure. But it wasn't a lie, which was the important thing.

"And Isaac and Derek are roommates. Since Isaac got emancipated and everything," she added.

'Everything' being his father brutally murdered, and the sheriff's department fingering Isaac for the crime at first, but that didn't need to be explicitly spelled out.

"Funny how Scott isn't here."

Stiles shrugged. She didn't know how to begin trying to explain the weirdness that was her and Scott recently.

"And you invited them over for a Sunday dinner," her dad said flatly, giving her a look that told her he wasn't buying what she was selling. " _Stiles_."

"It was a an act of mercy! You haven't seen their kitchen."

Her dad raised his eyebrows. "But you have," he said.

"Well," Stiles said, wracking her brain. "I can _imagine_ what their kitchen looks like?"

Noah Stilinski sighed a deep, heaving sigh, and sat down at the edge of his bed.

Stiles' stomach churned with what very well may have been guilt.

"So, rather than ask if you can have friends over, you spring this on me once they're already here, hoping I won't make a scene? Because you knew what I would say if you'd told me you wanted to invite _Derek Hale_ over to our house."

"Well," Stiles mumbled, "when you put it that way, it sounds bad." It absolutely was _that_ way.

Her dad sat there quietly, watching his daughter.

"He's not a bad guy," she said at last, internally squirming under the weight of her dad's expectant stare.

He just shook his head and breathed out a long, slow exhalation.

"We'll be discussing this later, young lady. Go. I'll be out in a minute."

Stiles didn't hesitate. She turned straight back around and went back to the dining room.

"Crisis mostly averted?" she whispered as she sat back down.

Derek tried to look unperturbed. "This was _your_ idea," he said. It wasn't exactly accusing, more matter of fact, like she needed to be reminded of it.

"Yes, fine, whatever," Stiles huffed. Just because this was what she'd been angling for didn't mean she knew what she was doing. Manipulation came easy to Stiles; she felt no shame in admitting that. Unfortunately, her dad was nearly immune to her wiles. Winging it was usually her best shot when it came to him.

As soon as her dad sat down at the table, Stiles launched into full offense mode. Best defense and all that, right?

" _So_ ," she began.

"Don't even start," her dad said, pointing his fork in her direction.

Well, _that_ was a short-lived assault.

"I'm curious, Derek. What is it you do when you're not spending your time hanging around high school students?"

Stiles' eyes went wide and she shot a look of ' _no, stop it, what are you doing, DAD!_ ' at her father, who was completely unrepentant as he loaded up his own plate with food.

He only took lunch away from his desk on slow weekends, and that was to keep an eye on his kid. Her dad had a limited amount of time to eat and decided the best use of his time was to give Derek the third degree. Because this was Stiles' life.

She still had hopes this would turn out okay. Or, if not okay, at least not worse off than before this afternoon.

"My uncle and I are wading through the all the red tape to get our family's land back." Derek gave a lopsided shrug. "What I do next depends on the outcome."

Derek Hale was sitting at her dining table, talking about mundane family matters, and playing with his food. Stiles had wanted this sort of thing to happen, but she hadn't anticipated just how much it would mess with her mind to actually witness it in action.

"No friends your own age? I only ask because I find it concerning how the most trouble my daughter got into before she met you was sticking her nose into places it didn't belong or serving the occasional detention. Now she's skipping school, showing up at crime scenes _before_ they're reported to law enforcement, and has a restraining order against her. And now we've got a couple of teenage runaways linked to you in the weeks before their disappearance. Got to tell you, as both the sheriff and a father, that's concerning."

Thanks, Dad. This was quickly turning into exactly what Stiles _hadn't_ wanted to happen.

"That's not Derek's fault," she said.

"Jackson's a douchebag who deserved what he got and worse," she didn't say.

Derek was doing that face he made when he felt cornered. Stiles briefly wished she could communicate telepathically just so she could tell Derek to dial it back a notch or two. Or three. Because when Derek was cornered he didn't just look like he was hurting, but like he was going to cause some hurting, too. It would only backfire spectacularly with her father.

Stiles looked back and forth from Derek to her dad.

Then slammed her heel down on Derek's foot.

Ah, wonderful, he was turning that look on her now.

"It's _not_ your fault," Stiles told him, her eyes daring him to argue the point.

It was totally Derek's fault. A little bit. It was Stiles' fault, too, though. Her fault more than Derek's, she was willing to admit. Except where Erica and Boyd were concerned. He was on his own, there. But Stiles had been the one who decided to get involved from the start. Scott had gotten bitten by a fucking werewolf! A _werewolf_. Stiles had not been willing to let her bro deal with that mess all on his own. He probably would have eaten somebody by now if she hadn't stuck her nose into all the weird happenings going on in Beacon Hills.

Speaking of which.... Fuck that. No. It was all _Peter's_ fault.

Stiles nodded to herself, feeling secure in her version of the blame game. Everything could be blamed on Peter.

And the Argents.

 _Shit_ , she thought. Definitely the Argents. Okay, so it was mostly the Argents' fault, and a little bit Peter's.

But it wasn't Derek's fault, not much anyway, and she wasn't going to let the guy drown himself in guilt over her, of all people. If he wanted to feel a hot guilty mess over his family, or Erica and Boyd, or global warming, then fine. Whatever. But Stiles refused to let him feel bad because she didn't know when to quit. Or made poor life choices. Or refused to quit making poor life choices.

"Don't make sad puppy dog eyes at me, mister," she told Derek, partly for his benefit, partly for her dad's. "Do you remember ever successfully telling me what to do?" she asked.

Derek's contemplative bitch-face was a thing of beauty, like he was thinking it over, and not agreeing with her because he had a guilt complex a mile wide, but also like he was bemoaning his sad fate to be saddled with her stubborn ass.

"No?" she said. "No. You don't." Stiles turned to face her dad, who was paying much closer attention to the two of them than she'd prefer. "What?"

She didn't like the pinched look that was building around his eyes.

He shook his head, picking up the pace on eating his lunch. "We'll talk about it later," he said, taking in Derek's tightly wound posture and the way Isaac was hunched over his plate and avoiding being dragged into the conversation by virtue of keeping his mouth constantly full.

"Yeah, okay," Stiles agreed warily.

The rest of the meal passed in blissful banality. Conversation ranged from the lacrosse team's pitiful showing at the end of the season (her dad had been a lot nicer in his wording than Stiles was in her thoughts), to her dad inquiring about the health of Derek's uncle. All right, so her father asking about Peter, or even remembering the man existed at all, wasn't on her list of happy fun times. But she appreciated the fact that Derek wasn't advertising his usual level of animosity toward the guy.

It probably had more to do with not wanting to look surlier than usual in front of the sheriff than any desire on Derek's behalf to avoid making Peter look bad.

But Stiles would take what she could get.

By the time her dad had to head back to work, the atmosphere around the table had relaxed significantly. If Noah Stilinski had a superpower, it was the ability to stay calm in any situation and diffuse tensions.

Stiles was so far in the opposite direction from her dad in that regard it was laughable. She really hoped it was one of those traits that skipped a generation. Maybe her kid would pick it up from Grandpa.

"What are you smiling for?" Isaac asked, breaking her out of her thoughts. "You look deranged."

"I was thinking about how much fun I'm going to have picking your flesh out of my teeth tonight." Stiles snapped her jaw in Isaac's direction.

He didn't have the decency to look even slightly apprehensive.

"Right. You still need to be chained up, remember?" Isaac said. He was smirking at her.

"Because she's too strong for you to control, and too fast for me to catch," Derek said pointedly, popping Isaac's happy little bubble of amusement at Stiles' lack of control.

Stiles was surprised. Both at the information, and the fact that Derek would actually praise her. For anything.

"Wait. So you're saying if I sucked more, I'd be allowed to run free?" she asked, dumbfounded.

"No." Derek bit out. "If you had better control, you'd be allowed to 'run free'." He seemed to soften a little. "But, if our pack was larger, I don't think you'd need to be restrained, either."

Well, that was something.

Stiles pouted a little, but accepted Derek's assessment. That didn't mean she had to like it.

"Are we going back to the warehouse tonight?"

Derek shook his head.

"The preserve. I have a plan."

Oh. Great. Derek had a plan. Tonight was going to suck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure it would take a lot longer for Isaac to become emancipated in the real world, but I figure if Teen Wolf canon can do whatever they want, regardless of real world implications, so can I. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Ps: Anything I may have ever said about the upcoming chapters? Ignore it. Chapter 10 has been acting difficult (by which I mean, it's kicking my ass), and things have not been going exactly to my previous stated plans.
> 
>  **EDIT 06/07/17:** Added a few new tags. Not necessarily for anything immediate, but I felt it was a good time to add them.  
>     
>    
>    
> Comments/questions/critique are all welcome and encouraged!


	10. mutual distaste and vague animosity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _'What is it?' she asked him. 'You've been weird around me all day. Weirder than usual, I mean. Come on, spit it out.'_ "
> 
> Isaac and Stiles have a little chat that's been long-coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this one a few days early to make up for the previous late chapters. And, good news: chapter 11 will be posted no later than the 16th.
> 
>  **Important Note:** For anyone unaware: a few new tags have been added over the past few days. Not necessarily tags for anything immediate, but tags I'm fairly certain will become relevant.
> 
> Generally, I will not be posting specific warnings at the beginning/end of chapters unless I feel the need to clarify things. The tags on this fic are for the _entire_ story. Be responsible with your own comfort levels. Remember to check the tags with each new chapter, in case they've been updated/changed. If you have any serious concerns/questions about the tags, you can always send me a message on tumblr, [@sailyoursoul](http://sailyoursoul.tumblr.com/ask). Or, you know, just hit me up there for whatever reason.
> 
>    
> All that being said, there's a scene at the beginning of this chapter that might come across as Derek acting overly cruel to Stiles. Check the note at the end if you're concerned by it.

* * *

**Sunday, April 17, 2011**

Stiles was glaring at a tree. This was where her life had ended up. Standing around in the middle of the forest preserve, glaring at a _tree_ like it had just shoved her into a locker and demanded her lunch money.

"I would like to state for the record that I hate this plan."

"Noted," Derek said. He didn't roll his eyes, but it was a near thing. Stiles could tell. She could always tell. With pretty much anyone, because eye-rolls at her expense were a regular reaction from people, but lately she was getting better at reading when Derek felt the urge and held back. Derek's habit of suppressed facial expressions and closed off body language was becoming more obvious to her by the day. Which was great for Stiles' ability to understand Derek better, but not so great for her ego.

"Everyone opposed to this plan, raise your hand," Stiles said, immediately reaching for the sky. Isaac clearly couldn't see the pointed looks she was sending him, just like he clearly hadn't heard what she said.

"I _said_ —," she started, but Isaac cut her off with a shove.

"I heard you. I think everyone in Beacon Hills heard you." Isaac shook his head and wandered off. He was still within hearing distance, but far enough apart from Stiles and Derek to show he didn't want to be involved in their argument.

"This isn't a democracy. There is no vote. Stiles. Put your _hand down_." Derek looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. "It's a big tree. We're chaining you to it. You'll be fine. The tree will be fine. So shut up."

Stiles' lower lip jutted out. She lowered her head a little and widened her eyes as she stared hard at Derek, willing him to cave.

He didn't cave.

"What are you—? Stop looking at me like that," Derek said, expression getting more and more pinched by the moment.

Stiles' chin wobbled a little as she hunched her shoulders just slightly. Her eyelashes fluttered a little, giving the appearance of damp eyes trying to blink back tears.

"But, Derek, what if I get free and _hurt_ someone?" she asked, voice getting a little wobbly.

"Then I guess you'll be picking more than Isaac out of your teeth," he said, utterly unmoved by her plight.

Stiles dropped the act and let out an explosive sigh in time with her throwing her arms out into the air in frustration.

"I _hate_ this plan!"

"I know. We've already been over this." Derek rolled his eyes "I'm going to get the chains," he said as he walked past her, shoving his arm into hers a little as he brushed by. Stiles, of course, because she was a vision of beauty and charm and was blessed with an overabundance of natural grace and good balance, promptly fell over and ended up with a face full of dirt and twigs.

"Pfftthppffuh," Stiles told the dirt.

Derek paused and turned to look back at her, cocking his head to the side a little.

Stiles lifted her head and whined, "Aren't you going to help me up?"

"Nope." Derek crossed his arms. Bastard was enjoying this. She knew it.

"But I'm pre—" Stiles cut herself off, remembering Isaac was still there with them and could hear every word.

Derek lifted a cupped hand to an ear. "What was that? _What_ are you?"

"I'm _pre_... _tty_ sure it's your duty as an Alpha to help me up," Stiles said, glowering up at his stupid face with its stupid stubble and stupid toothy grin.

She was glad Derek could find things in the world to be amused by, but, on a purely personal level, she'd really appreciate it if he could stop being so amused by things that caused her pain. Physical, emotional. It didn't matter. Stiles' entire world could be ending and there Derek would be, watching and smirking at her and doing _nothing_.

All right. So that wasn't entirely fair. If she was in any real danger he'd throw himself on the proverbial grenade to keep her safe. Which was its own separate issue of, ' _are you_ kidding _me, Derek?_ ' that Stiles wasn't touching with a ten-foot pole. But everything barring that seemed fair game to him. Stiles stared at his sneakered feet walking away without so much as a pause. Derek Hale, tortured soul with a guilt complex a mile wide. Who knocked over pregnant teenagers and left them lying in the dirt. Jerk.

"I'll pee on everything you love!" she yelled at his retreating back. Derek kept walking.

"I think the only thing you'll be peeing on is his car," Isaac said from beside her.

Stiles rolled over onto her back, surprised by his sudden appearance. Man, she really _did_ need to pay more attention to her surroundings. Not that she'd ever admit it to Derek. Last she'd been aware, Isaac had been twenty feet away, staring off into the forest, talking to woodland creatures or playing with his scarf and telling himself how pretty he was or something.

"Isaac," she wailed, ramping up her pitiful factor as she stretched out her hand into the air, "help a girl out, would you?" Stiles didn't actually need any help. She just wanted one of these jerks to act a little like a gentleman for once. Just for the novelty factor. And any excuse to roll on the ground and whine about life's unfairness was an excuse Stiles would take advantage of.

Isaac snickered a little and toed the dirt. He wasn't going to help her. This was Isaac. He didn't like her, she didn't like him. It was a mutual distaste for one another and a healthy dash of vague animosity which fuelled their bond as packmates.

Except, there was a hand grasping her own and pulling her up to her feet.

Stiles had not expected that to work.

"I did not expect that to work," she said aloud. Isaac watched her, awkwardly shuffling his feet as Stiles patted herself down, brushing dirt and dead leaves off her clothing. He'd been doing that all day, hadn't he? Watching her. With intent. Like he had something to say, but for whatever reason, wasn't saying _anything_. It was driving her crazy. Stiles was sick of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"What is it?" she asked him. "You've been weird around me all day. Weirder than usual, I mean. Come on, spit it out."

Isaac shot her a disgusted look, but smoothed over the expression as quickly as it had appeared on his face. He turned his head to stare off in the direction Derek had gone. After a moment, a particularly tense moment for Stiles, he finally spoke up.

"It's Scott."

Well, okay. Stiles... had not expected that. Maybe she should have? She thought back to when Isaac had started acting cagey, and it lined up pretty well with her little talk with Derek about her phone call with Scott.

"What about Scott?" she asked, suspicious, unsure if she wanted to know the answer. Well, no. She wanted to know. Stiles _absolutely_ wanted to know. She just wasn't sure if she'd like what he had to say or not, and also, she really didn't like the idea that Isaac might know something about Scott that she didn't. The thought of it left a sour taste in her mouth.

"He's my friend, too," Isaac said, shuffling his feet and shoving his hands into his pockets.

The two of them, Scott and Isaac, had been grower closer over the past month or so. And it totally, _absolutely_ , was in no way a sore spot for Stiles. Nuh uh. Nope. Wasn't even a thing.

Okay, fine, it _was_ a thing. It was a huge, gnawing thing in Stiles' belly and felt a whole lot like jealousy and bitterness and _wow_ , Stiles was getting really tired of Scott having friends other than her. It sucked. It sucked a _lot_. Why did Stiles' best friend have to be so likeable? Scott attracted annoyingly cute people to him like Allison and Isaac, while Stiles seemed to draw brooding werewolves with creepy tendencies.

How was that fair?

And the only thing that might have made her feel better about it— the fact that Allison was violent and occasionally terrifying, and Isaac was violent and obnoxious— made her worry for Scott rather than feel any sort of smug satisfaction. Besides, both Hale men were violent, occasionally terrifying, _and_ obnoxious, so it wasn't like it evened anything out.

So, it wasn't without a small hint of bitterness that Stiles told Isaac, "I _know_ the two of you are friends. What does that have to do with anything?"

Isaac shot her a dirty look. Rude.

"How do you keep from telling him anything?" he finally said, pulling his hands out of his pockets to tug at his scarf.

"I tell him plenty," Stiles said sharply, then reeled herself back from getting too angry at Isaac's question. She could feel the prick at the tips of her fingers and in her gums, signaling the start of a shift. She had to reign it in.

Especially because it wasn't _Isaac_ she was angry at. Not as angry as she was with herself, anyway. Because it wasn't true. The past two months, Stiles had been keeping secret after secret from Scott. Not that Scott had been innocent in the secrets department.

At least Stiles had never double-crossed her own pack and played ball with hunters. That was so much worse than anything she'd been keeping hidden.

_Keep telling yourself that, Stilinski._

Stiles closed her eyes and timed her breaths, dragging in air through her nose, gently letting it escape from between slightly parted lips.

Inhale: one, two, three, four, five.

Hold: one, two, three.

Exhale: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

Inhale, hold, exhale.

Inhale.

Hold.

Exhale.

Stiles opened her eyes. Isaac was staring at her, but her fingernails were still nails, not claws, and her teeth were teeth instead of fangs. Stiles could deal with judgmental looks just fine.

"We keep things from Scott, because Scott's... not pack," she said, slowly.

Not pack. Not trustworthy.

She hated thinking it, _hated_ , but that didn't make it any less true.

It used to be, she kept things from Scott to protect him. _'You go left, I'll go right.' Don't remember how fast you can run, Scott, don't think about how easy it will be for the alpha to catch me._ She kept things from him so he could sleep soundly at night. _'I'm fine, Scott, don't worry about it.' You don't need to know about my mom, you don't need to know what she did, what I did. You don't need to know about the panic attacks. The sleepless nights._ She kept things from him so he wouldn't worry about her. _'I'm so tired. I spent all night playing Call of Duty.' You don't need to know I couldn't sleep because I couldn't get my brain to shut up, because I had to listen to the police scanner and make sure my dad made it home, because I didn't want to have nightmares for the third night in a row._

Stiles was a liar, and she lied to Scott more than most. She kept things from him long before Argents, or Peter Hale, or werewolves had anything to do with their lives.

She rarely felt bad about it when she did it. It wasn't until later that the guilt would wash over her. Small, lingering feelings of guilt layering up on one another, waxing and waning like the moon, but always receding like the tide. Until a wave hit. And guilt would be one more thing keeping her up at night.

But now? Now, Stiles was keeping things from Scott— big things, _huge_ things, things she wanted to tell him, things he should probably know— because she couldn't trust him not to use the information against her. Against her pack. Against Derek, her alpha.

Sometimes, she could still see that look on Derek's face when she closed her eyes, that helpless, angry, _betrayed_ look. And Scott had put that there.

More than that, he'd made Stiles complicit. Convinced her it was a good idea to join Derek's pack. Convinced her it was for the best. And she'd thrown herself in head first.

Stiles still wonders if Derek would have welcomed her back if Erica and Boyd hadn't run away when they did. An alpha needed betas, after all.

"What about you?" Isaac asked, breaking Stiles out of her stormy thoughts.

"What _about_ me?" she asked back, confused.

"You _are_ pack. You think it's okay for Derek to keep things from _you_?"

Stiles froze, belly churning.

"What."

Isaac's face scrunched up for a moment. Then the expression cleared and he shoved his hands back into his pockets.

"Scott's not the only one being kept in the dark about stuff. Not a good feeling, is it?" he said, then turned on a heel and started to stride away.

"Oh, _hell_ no!" Stiles said, bounding after him. She reached up and grabbed him by his stupid scarf. The thought of strangling Isaac with it flitted through her mind for an instant, but passed by as quickly as it came to her.

Isaac spun around, eyes flashing gold as he shoved her away from him. Thankfully, Stiles was ready for it, and didn't go any farther than to let go of her handhold. She wasn't _actually_ going to strangle Isaac, no matter how much she occasionally felt like he deserved it.

"What do you know?"

"I know you're a shitty friend, and Scott deserves better."

_Yeah, tell me something I don't know. Asshole._

Isaac continued, "You wouldn't even be here if you could control your shift on your own. Admit it. You're using Derek as much as Scott did. At least _Scott_ was trying to save people. You're just selfish."

This had to be a nightmare, burst out of her worst dreams and come to life in the light of day. It wasn't like Isaac was saying anything Stiles hadn't thought a thousand times before, late at night, when the guilt rode in on the tide.

Then a new voice joined in on the conversation.

"Ah, yes. Because an out of control werewolf is so safe to the people around them. That makes perfect sense."

Stiles turned toward where the voice came from, a sinking feeling in her gut. While she appreciated the support, and it was always nice to have someone in her corner, standing up for her... she didn't love that the form this particular assistance came in was one Peter Hale.

"It's only selfish to join a pack for support if you don't give anything back. What is it that _you_ do for this pack, Isaac?" Peter asked as he stepped closer toward the teenage boy. His eyes were dark, face blank. But the tone he spoke with was silky smooth and full of tightly coiled danger, announcing his readiness to unleash gratuitous violence without a moment's notice.

She had to admit, though, the way Isaac paled and glanced around like he was checking for new looming threats or Derek to pop out and save him from his sinister uncle was pretty damn satisfying.

"It's sweet that you want to stick up for your little friend," Peter went on. "Sort of like Scott. Sweet, but ultimately useless."

"Oh, _shut up_ ," Stiles said, drawing out the words.

Peter turned his gaze on her, eyes flicking up and down her body as he stared.

Stiles was glad she wasn't one to blush easily. Because, wow. She'd been having all sorts of X-rated dreams starring Peter for the past few days, and seeing him in person, seeing his focus all on her, was equal parts exciting and embarrassing. And this was so not the time for her to be getting all hot and bothered. Especially by Peter. Whose douchey facial hair was looking extra douche-tastic lately.

At least that was one unattractive feature she could focus on. She'd take anything to cool down from finding him so unnervingly hot at this point. It was a bit of a lost cause, but, again, she'd take _anything_. Stiles didn't know why her sex drive had to focus on a formerly-deranged (but still completely awful) person like _him_ , but she didn't have to take it lying down.

(No, she took it bent over. _Damn it_. Mind out of the gutter, Stilinski.)

Because, as much as Stiles didn't like contemplating it, Peter was running through her mind on repeat. Best of Sexy Peter Hale Moments. NOW That's What I Call Hot. Stiles was running out of music compilation names to attribute to The Cause of All Her Life's ProblemsTM. Capital letters and trademark mandatory. The past two nights, she'd woken up in the middle of the night after living through _extremely_ explicit dreams about him, panting and half-shifted, dampness between her legs spreading halfway down her inner thighs.

No amount of cold showers helped. Her decision to go for a run that morning had been out of equal parts restlessness and self-preservation.

Stiles hoped it was just crazy pregnancy hormones messing with her, something that would pass. And the sooner the better. One lapse in judgment was enough for her. She got the t-shirt and everything. And by t-shirt, she meant that in seven months, give or take a few weeks, she'd have a little bundle of joy. And a completely different reason for sleepless nights.

"I don't need you fighting my battles with _Isaac_ , of all people, and I'm sure as hell not going to stand here and let you talk bad about Scott. Ooh," she said in a mocking voice, wriggling her fingers in the air, "you don't like Scott. Wow. Big surprise. No one _cares_. What are you doing here?" She crossed her arms, mentally willing Derek to come back with the chains.

Which she was tempted to use on Peter, then go out for ice cream. Or, rather, since it _was_ the full moon, and Stiles was positive she'd have a hell of a time keeping herself in check without some form of restraints or a locked cell of some kind, maybe find a nice dark cellar with only one way in or out and a solid lock on an even more solid door. Ice cream could happen once the moon stopped pulling so hard on Stiles' sense of self.

Now she really wanted ice cream. Maybe she could convince Derek post-full-moon sundaes were a thing he should spring for.

"It's the full moon, Stiles," Peter said, taking a few steps closer to her and Isaac. "I'm here to spend it with my _pack_." He said the word 'pack' like it was the punchline to an inside joke. Peter glanced at Isaac, then turned his attention to his nails on one hand. "I'd suggest you don't let Derek hear you spilling secrets which aren't yours to tell."

Okay. That was it. Stiles was sick of this.

"Wait. _You_ know what he's talking about?" She couldn't believe this. This was. Unbelievable. Of course Peter knew. He was a sneaky, slippery sort of bastard and that was one more reason why she should stop trying to play nice with him. Even if she didn't want to stop. Even if she enjoyed their interactions.

It was the sort of thing that would probably come back to bite her in the ass.

(And wasn't _that_ a thought. No. Out. Of. The. Gutter, Stilinski.)

Peter smiled, looking like the cat that got the canary.

"Derek's on his way back," he said, rather than give her any clues about what they were all hiding from her. "He's carrying something noisy. Chains?" he asked, frowning slightly.

Stiles nodded, catching Isaac's smug smirk.

"They're for Stiles," Isaac said.

"Kinky," Peter murmured, arching an eyebrow to accompany the lecherous smile he shot their way.

" _Gross_." Isaac faked a retching, gagging sound.

"I hate both of you," Stiles said flatly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning/Explanation:** Normally, I don't like to explain things outside the narration, but this really doesn't fit into the story and, for various reasons, it feels important that I clarify matters.
> 
> Derek deliberately bumped into Stiles. He did not deliberately knock her over. Stiles is just clumsy. She fell on the ground, but was 100% fine. The baby was 100% fine. Derek knew Stiles was unhurt. Stiles knew she was unhurt. She was being overly dramatic and wasn't anything other than her usual level of annoyed with Derek. She wasn't angry, or scared, or anything along those lines. Derek was being a bit of a jerk, but Stiles was purposely acting like a big baby about falling to the ground.
> 
> If she'd actually been hurt, Derek would _not_ have acted that way. Stiles is a werewolf. Even pregnant, she is a lot hardier than the average human. Which is something to keep in mind.
> 
>    
> PS: I'm so glad Google Trends exists, so I could discover that I'm not being anachronistic with the "pee on everything you love" bit. Apparently, it first started going around in late 2010, so it isn't impossible she would have known this beloved phrase. If I'm being honest, I planned to keep it even if it wasn't a thing before April 2011, but it's nice to know I'm in the clear.
> 
>    
> Comments/questions/critique are all welcome and encouraged!


	11. a time for pack unity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _Peter grinned, the lines around his eyes crinkling a little. 'Sweetheart, stop lying to yourself. You're not uncomfortable. You only wish you were.'_ "
> 
> The full moon is coming up for the pack. Preparations are being made, words are being said, Peter is being... Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter! Yay! Posting it a day early! Double yay!
> 
> For anyone who cares: the full moon on this chapter's date is called the Pink Moon, the first full moon of Spring.
> 
> It has nothing to do with this chapter, but I thought I'd throw that out there.

* * *

**Sunday, April 17, 2011**

"What are _you_ doing here?" Derek asked when he got to the clearing they were planning to spend the full moon in, echoing Stiles' earlier comment perfectly.

Peter adopted a hurt expression and began to speak.

"It's the full moon, Nephew. It's a time for pack unity."

Thankfully, Derek shoved an armful of thick chains against Peter's chest, forcing him to take them and effectively shutting him up before he could continue with that line of insincere bullshit.

"Are these really necessary?" Peter asked as he redistributed the weight of them in his arms, the chains clinking noisily over the sound of his voice.

"Yes," Derek said shortly.

Peter looked dubious, then turned his head to give Stiles another once over. He dropped the chains to the forest floor with a sort of carelessness that rubbed her the wrong way. She _needed_ those.

"Stiles can't even control her mouth," Isaac piped up. "What makes you think she'll be able to control the rest of herself tonight?"

Derek and Peter both turned their heads to shoot dark looks Isaac's way.

Stiles wasn't sure whether she should tackle Isaac to the ground and make him bleed, make him scream in _agony_ , or if she would rather prefer to let Peter do it.

As soon as the idea occurred to her, Stiles felt her stomach roil with guilt and disgust with herself. Partly because it had been a genuine desire to hurt Isaac, to see him writhe on the ground with her claws buried in his gut. It hadn't been a purely idle thought. Even if only for a second, she'd meant it, she'd felt that desire to cause serious harm rush through her and burrow under her skin. But that disgust with herself was also because she'd instinctively pulled up the image of Peter _defending her honor_ or whatever. That was not a pleasant image, or something she actually wanted in any way.

Even if it did make a dark, carefully buried and long-neglected part of her squirm with delight.

"Isaac," Derek scolded. "Don't."

"She's been a werewolf longer than I have, and she still can't stop shifting all the time," Isaac went on, displaying a level of stubborn defiance toward Derek that Stiles hadn't thought him capable of. "You were all over the rest of us about control and discipline, but _Stiles_ gets a free pass?"

That was almost fair, Stiles thought, and she'd be inclined to agree if he didn't sound so bitter about it. Or if it was almost anyone other than Isaac voicing it.

It had turned out she could help teach a werewolf to control their shift, but she couldn't manage it for herself. It wasn't like she didn't try. She did. Stiles struggled and struggled and tried everything she could think of to attain some degree of control over her own shifting. She'd even tried _yoga_ , for god's sake. Nothing seemed to work to any degree of reliability.

Stiles Stilinski, constant failure. What else was new?

"What part of chaining her to a tree is a _free pass_?" Derek said. "No two people handle being turned the same—"

Peter cut him off. "Even some of us born to this life can struggle with control," he said. It sounded mean. Pointed. And he was shooting Derek a sickeningly superior look as he said so.

Derek glared at his uncle, but didn't respond verbally.

"And unlike _some_ ," Peter went on, "Stiles actually has a good reason to find it so difficult."

Wait. What? This was news to her.

"Because she's a spaz?" Isaac asked under his breath.

Peter simply smiled. Stiles did not like that smile. She didn't like it one bit. When he opened his mouth to respond, she was genuinely worried over what words were going to spill from his lips.

"No." He didn't outright insult Isaac, but Stiles was certain Isaac and Derek heard its absence just as well as she did. "A hormonal imbalance can play havoc with a werewolf's control, and Stiles' hormones are in a near constant state of change at the moment. The fact that she hasn't torn anyone to pieces yet speaks volumes."

Stiles wanted to throw up. And she was like 98% sure that had nothing to do with her hormones.

Isaac looked equally disgusted, even if it was for a vastly different reason.

"Oh, gross. I did not need to hear that," he complained. "And so? You're saying that she sucks at being a werewolf because she's a _girl_? Erica wasn't this bad."

Peter shot a look at Isaac like he was a dog who'd just pissed on the carpet.

"It's rather telling how _that_ is the first conclusion you draw from what I said."

Stiles hated to prove this entire argument's point, but the claws on both her hands slipped free without her permission.

"Can we please stop talking about my hormones?" She clenched her hands into fists to hide the evidence, but that only proved to be a _terrible_ idea. Her claws tore into fleshy palms, and the scent of blood wafted in the air around them. Three pairs of eyes turned to look at her.

Everyone was quiet for a moment, while Stiles burned with humiliation and irritation in equal measure. Finally, Derek broke the silence.

"Nobody wants to hear about your hormones anyway," he said.

"Yeah, we already have _smell_ them all the time," Isaac chimed in.

Stiles felt her eyes flash as a growl tore from her throat in response.

"Go fuck yourself," she spat, mildly relieved to discover that at least she didn't have to talk through a mouth full of fangs.

Derek sighed. "Do I need to put all three of you in a time-out?" He looked as done with all of this as Stiles felt.

"Perhaps you should take Isaac somewhere more private and impress upon him the need to be more respectful of his packmate," Peter suggested, sweetly false helpfulness ringing clear through his words.

Surprisingly, Derek nodded slowly, and gestured for Isaac to walk ahead. Isaac scowled, probably thinking this was terribly unfair, but didn't say a word as he did as his alpha wanted. Derek began to follow him, but stopped mid-step and turned to look between Peter and Stiles, appearing to suddenly remember that this would leave the two of them in the same place together. Alone.

"Oh my god, if you wanna privately talk to Isaac about how you're not mad, just disappointed, then go. I'll be fine," Stiles grumbled quietly, prickling with anger with everyone and everything around her.

She was so damn angry. With Isaac, for being a dick. With Peter, for spilling her personal problems out in the open. With Derek, who hadn't seemed one bit surprised by Peter saying she had a good reason to be the world's shittiest werewolf, but hadn't said _one_. _goddamn_. _word_. to her about it.

" _Peter_ ," Derek murmured, heavy warning packed into a single word.

"Go, go. She's perfectly safe with me," Peter said. "I promise."

"Because that's worth so much from you."

Peter held out a hand, smallest finger extended out toward Derek. "Pinkie-promise?"

Derek shook his head and made a disgusted sound, but he turned back around and finally resumed following Isaac's footsteps away from them.

Stiles stood still, trying to calm herself. But when she drew in the first slow, deep breath through her nose, it was like fireworks going off behind her eyeballs. This time, she could smell _everything_. In HD, surround sound, crystal clear clarity. She couldn't identify most of it beyond Peter, dead leaves in dirt, trees and the sweetness of new leaves popping free of their pods, Peter, grass, moss, rotting wood, musky animals, _Peter_.

Then there was a warm presence in her personal space and a firm hand taking hold of her arm, broad fingers wrapping themselves around her wrist.

That was when Stiles realized she'd squeezed her eyes shut and was breathing rapidly, instead of drawing in the slow calming breaths she'd been aiming for. She opened her eyes, and there was Peter, staring intently at her. His expression was cold, calculating, curious.

Then he raised her hand to his mouth and _ohgodwetwarmsoft_ lips and tongue drawing across the ball of her thumb where she'd just buried her claws. Stiles shuddered, eyelids drooping without her permission, her back arching slightly to bare her body more toward him. Blunt teeth scraped gently over the sensitive center of her palm and a hushed gasp filled the quiet around them, forced from her like she'd just been punched in the solar plexus.

That was when Peter pressed his tongue out flat and licked all the way across the inside of her hand. She tried to pull it away from him at that, suddenly all too aware of what was happening, but his grip was firm and unrelenting. Just like the pulse of arousal that was radiating through her lower belly and spreading outward.

"What the _fuck_ ," Stiles rasped. She'd meant to say it forcefully, shout it, make her words forceful and angry. Instead, she sounded _wrecked_.

She tried again to tear her arm free from his grasp, but Peter shoved his nose into her hand and closed his eyes as he inhaled noisily. Only then did he release her, opening his eyes to meet her own as she withdrew. Strangely, she'd half expected to see red bleeding into them. But his eyes were blue. They were so blue.

Coming back to herself, Stiles' claws dropped in that hand almost faster than she could consciously think about it, and she swung her arm up and around to slap him, maybe slice up his face in the process if she was lucky.

Instead, she found herself pressed face-first into a nearby tree, her arm twisted around her back and Peter uncomfortably close behind her as he held her still.

"Tsk, tsk, Stiles," he tutted directly into her ear. "That wasn't very nice."

"Neither was molesting my hand, you enormous creep!" she hissed, squirming and struggling in his hold.

Peter chuckled softly, the vibrations zinging over her body as his chest shook in motion with the sound. He let go and pulled back away from her, but Stiles didn't turn around to face him just yet. Instead, she leaned against the tree and placed her hands on the trunk to support her weight as she gasped her way through a few unsteady breaths and tried to settle herself down.

"The taste of someone's blood can tell you a lot about them, if you know what you're doing," Peter said, _totally_ not increasing the sinister serial-killer vibe he wore so well, not at _all_ , "and there's so much to be gained from the scents we carry in our hands."

"Thanks for the lesson, _Professor Hale_ ," she said venomously, willing herself to turn around to face him. She rested the back of her head against the rough bark behind her and drew up her arms and folded them to cover her front. Stiles felt awfully vulnerable before him at that moment. She hated how much she _didn't_ hate it.

"Aside from that, a person's hands can also be an erogenous zone," Peter said, smug amusement and satisfaction dripping from his tongue.

"Did you take a class on how to be the world's creepiest pervert, or does it just come naturally to you?"

He didn't respond, instead taking the time to lick over his top and bottom lips in slow succession, like he was trying to wring out every trace of the taste of her onto his tongue.

"Even if I were as nose-blind as the idiots around you with regards to how flush your scent is with creating a new life inside you, there would be no hiding it from the taste of your blood. There's nothing quite like it."

"No, really, I mean it," she barrelled on. "Was there a seminar? A six-part video set on disturbing things to say and ways to make everyone around you uncomfortable? Online lessons?"

Peter grinned, the lines around his eyes crinkling a little. "Sweetheart, stop lying to yourself. You're not uncomfortable. You only wish you were."

Stiles trembled, hating how right his words were.

"Go to hell."

"Didn't much enjoy it there, truth be told." Peter dragged a thumb over his lips to ostensibly dry them, but then had to go and slip his thumb into his mouth, up against his tongue, and sucked around it. "I much preferred the nights we shared together."

Stiles' jaw dropped.

So he _had_ been aware of the dreams she had when he was dead. _Fuck_.

"I must say, you have _quite_ the filthy imagination. I had only been trying to speak to you. Imagine my surprise when I found myself naked in your thoughts and wrapped around a willing and eager sex kitten. Time and time again."

"Oh my god, shut up, please, for the love of god, _shut up_ ," she said, words muffled by the hands she'd pressed over her face in response to her agonizing humiliation.

Miracle of miracles, he quieted down, calmly waiting for Stiles to pull herself together.

Someone alert the Vatican.

"Oh my god, I hate you so much," she mumbled into her palms. Then she tensed and braced herself for what she knew he was about to say, for him to tell her she was lying.

Only it never came.

Stiles lowered her hands to see Peter wearing an oddly tender expression. It was unsettling, to say the least. It also made her insides flip flop weirdly, a fluttery lightness building up within her body. It... wasn't an unpleasant sensation. Just disconcerting.

"And what did you mean by 'nose-blind idiots'?" she asked, partly wanting to know, but also wanting to wipe that look off his face. She didn't like Peter Hale being the cause of warm fuzzy feelings. System error. It did not compute.

As it happened, asking that ended up being a success. Peter's expression instantly turned into one of mild exasperation.

"It hasn't occurred to you that Isaac and your precious Scott haven't noticed the new and rather _distinct_ changes to your scent?"

Stiles flailed.

"Oh, it's occurred to me! God! And, look, I get that I'm a failure at Werewolfing 101—" Stiles said, noticing Peter's eyebrows rise in surprise, or amusement, or both, but not stopping, "—but it's not like I've noticed any changes either, okay? I'm freaked out at the thought of the way I _smell_ giving it away, but they haven't figured it out yet and I'm completely okay with that."

Peter made an amused sound in the back of his throat.

"They spend much more time around you than Derek or I do. The change in scent has likely been gradual enough that it doesn't register as a change to their noses. It certainly wouldn't to yours. I doubt it has anything to do with how well you're succeeding or failing at ' _Werewolfing 101_ '," he echoed her words in gentle mockery, "and everything to do with exposure to your own scent. If they haven't figured it out by now, I doubt they'll ever pick up on it. Until either you tell them, or you start showing.

"Besides," he went on, "how often do you think they come into contact with pregnant women? Two teenage boys, hardly any family between them. It's extremely unlikely either one of them would have a good grasp of what a human pregnancy smells like. Mostly human, anyway. The difference between a pregnant werewolf or pregnant human's changing scent is negligible."

Stiles let out a slow, relieved exhalation, air making a whooshing sound as it escaped through her parted lips. She didn't fail to notice the way that drew Peter's attention to her mouth. She definitely noticed the smirking little twist to his face.

"There's also the fact that it's not a particularly _strong_ scent to pick up on." Peter inched closer toward her, leering. "Someone would have to make an effort to get in a good whiff to notice it at all."

Stiles scowled. "Why am I not surprised you're into invasive sniffing?" Peter's leering intensified slightly. Although, that particular line of thought begged the question of Derek. Frowning in confused discomfort, she asked, "What's Derek's excuse? He picked up on it before you did."

She was surprised to see Peter turn contemplative and serious. His eyes and the set of his jaw softened perceptibly.

"He was most likely monitoring your mood and health." It seemed like he was looking right through her for a moment. "He used to do that with Cora."

That was a name Stiles hadn't heard before. She scrunched up her face, wracking her memory to figure out if it rang any bells. Nope. Not a one.

"Cora?" she prompted when Peter didn't elaborate any further.

"His baby sister."

Peter blinked a few times, like he was tearing himself out of a memory he hadn't thought about for a long time. He sharpened his gaze to focus back on Stiles again, looking fully present once more.

"You _have_ noticed how tightly Derek's latched onto you, I hope. He hasn't been subtle in the way he's been neatly slotting himself into the protective older brother role with you."

Stiles had absolutely no idea what to do with that information.

She had figured out a while ago that Derek had a tendency to treat her like a surrogate for someone else. She tried not to let it bother her. Stiles was used to that from people.

She just hadn't realized that Derek used to have a little sister, let alone that he had been treating Stiles like one.

It wasn't like she had any basis for comparison. Scott was the closest thing she had to a sibling, and until recently the two of them had been more like twins, constantly in one another's orbit.

Honestly, this cleared up a lot for her when it came to Derek's behavior. The guy was so hot and cold, teasing and a borderline dick one minute, overbearing and overprotective the next.

"Although," Peter interrupted her inner musing with a cruel little rejoinder, eyes glimmering wildly, "you _do_ resemble Paige rather closely. The boy's first love, met with _such_ a tragic end to her short life. I'm sure you confuse my nephew's instincts terribly."

Stiles was a little confused by the details, but she was getting the gist of what Peter was trying to say perfectly well. She grew warm and discomfited at the implication and glowered. "Yeah? What's _your_ excuse?"

God, why was this her lot in life? Forced to deal with men even more emotionally stunted than herself? And Peter, who took delight in messing with everyone's heads, hers included.

She must have drowned a lot of puppies in a past life or something, to be so cursed. Karma was a bitch.

"Oh, I'm not confused in my instincts when it comes to you in the slightest, Stiles."

Well, that made one of them. He somehow managed to make his words sound equally inviting and threatening, making her blood pressure rise with both irritation and interest.

Stiles' instincts when it came to Peter were in a _constant_ state of confusion.

Part of her wanted to rub her face into his neck and drink in the consuming scent of him, warring with the part of her that screamed, ' _Danger! Danger!_ ', warning her away from his attentions and urging her to tear his heart out from his chest before he could worm his way into hers.

And, fuck, was that really something she needed to be concerned about? It was one thing to find Peter attractive, or fantasize about sex whenever he caught the interest of her thoughts. The idea that actual _feelings_ could happen was something completely different, and so much worse.

Stiles turned her head to stare off into the distance. That was when she noticed just how dark it was getting, just how bright the moon was growing in the sky.

"Where the hell is Derek?" she murmured to herself. "It's almost time, and I can't—"

The words broke off in her throat, striking her with terror at the thought of being loose as the pull of the moon grew ever stronger. Stiles _needed_ to be restrained. She didn't want to take the chance that she might hurt someone because she couldn't control herself.

"Stiles," Peter said, calm radiating through his tone. "You'll be fine. I won't let anything happen to you, and Derek will be here soon. Everything's going to be okay."

"I'm not worried about _me_. It's everyone else I'm worried about," she admitted, too nervous to hold back the truth.

Peter walked up to her, right up into her personal space, cupping her shoulders and leaning down toward her face as though he were moving in for a kiss.

"I won't let you hurt anyone, either."

Stiles' heart pounded painfully in her chest as she raised her head to meet his eyes on her. It wouldn't take much to press their mouths together. She wanted it so bad she could taste it.

Or maybe that was just the nearness of him, wrapping her up in his scent so tightly it teased her tastebuds.

"What the hell are you two doing?" _Isaac_. Fucking _Isaac_.

Stiles pulled back from Peter, a snarl working its way up through her throat as she turned to face the interruption.

"Stiles, _control yourself_ ," Derek barked from Isaac's side, eyes filled with the deep red of an alpha's command. She felt it, but distantly. Like from a long way off, or underwater. "Isaac," he said more quietly, "get the chains."

At that very moment, Stiles didn't _want_ the damn chains. And she definitely didn't want Isaac anywhere near her. Unless it was to bite and gouge and maim. She wanted to tear him open and hear him beg her for mercy.

She tensed while Isaac moved over toward the links of chain left abandoned in the dirt. As he bent down to pick them up, she pounced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So :)
> 
> Have fun with this cliffhanger :) :)
> 
> You'll have even more fun next chapter :) :) :)
> 
>    
> Comments/questions/critique are all welcome and encouraged!


	12. dominance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _The moon sang its siren song to her; she felt its urging deep in her bones._ "
> 
> The full moon takes its toll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) *points at tags*
> 
> 2) This chapter is a bit of a departure from the usual tone in this fic. Direct quote from my Twitter while writing this beast: "Chapter 12 is gonna be weird." 
> 
> 3) And this chapter _is_ a beast. This is the longest chapter so far, because I have officially given up trying to keep chapter word counts down to ensure I post on time. It turns out, I can keep up even with 3,500-4,000 word-long chapters, and I feel like there's enough content to justify their length.
> 
>    
> Fic News: Chapter 13 will be posted some time between the 28th and 30th, depending on how much writing I can get done in the next week. I also plan to read over the earlier chapters and possibly make a few changes here and there if necessary. The perils of posting a story as you're writing it, I guess.
> 
> RL has been kicking me in the face lately, but I'm tentatively hoping I'll soon get to the point where I can update a little more frequently than once a week. *crosses fingers*

* * *

**Sunday, April 17, 2011**

Stiles wasn't aware of anything but the sound of Isaac's heart beating fast and erratic and the desire to do harm.

To feel his hot, sticky blood coat her hands and paint the inside of her mouth red.

All she heard was the thump of a nervous heartbeat and the crunching of leaves, the alpha saying _something_ behind her in a tone that would have brought a lesser wolf to their knees. It barely even registered with her. Stiles knew that Isaac was a threat, and had to be dealt with. He was a thorn in her side and every shred of rational thought was being stripped away and replaced with the instinct to deal with that irritation, to remove the threat.

She was on him in an instant, claws shredding through cloth and skin and muscle, tearing through the soft underbelly of the pitiful wolf she had on his knees.

Then she tore out his throat.

The alpha grabbed her from behind, and Stiles struck out to slam her elbow in his face. Unfortunately, that move pulled her claws out of the whimpering, gurgling little wolf's flesh. The alpha barely even flinched at the impact, and grabbed her in a vice-like grip, one arm tight around her middle and the other holding her arms pressed up against her chest.

It left the perfect opening for her. Stiles bit down on the offending appendage that locked her in and tore out a mouthful of flesh, heedless of the blood that gushed out from the wound she had created. His grip loosened on her and she broke free of his hold with ease.

"Peter!" the alpha shouted as the scents of pain and anger and fear filled the air and choked her.

She knew that name.

_Peter_.

It made her pause for an instant, only an instant, and she stared at the wolf called Peter who was staring back at her. It was an invitation. It was a challenge.

Stiles ran, leaving the wounded beta and alpha behind, no longer interested in fighting either one of them.

She was pleased to note that only one wolf followed her, dogging her steps and managing to keep pace.

_Peter_.

He was fast, as fast as she was. But was he strong enough? She had to know. Something deep down in Stiles' subconscious told her he was weak, that he used to be strong but wasn't any longer. It also told her that was what he wanted others to think, that he couldn't be trusted to be honest about how powerful he was or was not.

One way or another, she'd learn the truth for herself tonight.

She ran tirelessly through the woods, instinctively knowing she needed to get father away from the two wolves she'd left bleeding in the clearing. She also wanted to see if Peter had the stamina to keep up.

Time passed. The trees and rocks and dirt still looked the same, but were subtly different.

_Territory_. She was no longer in the alpha's territory.

The moment the truth of that hit her, the wolf called Peter hit her as well. His body crashed into her, two of them twisting as he tumbled her down backwards into the forest floor and pinned her beneath him.

She was flush with excitement, elated to discover he hadn't only managed to match her speed, but he was able to _catch_ her.

She let loose a low growl, signifying her pleasure at being caught. It meant she could finally discover just how strong this wolf truly was.

Without pausing any further, she spun below him, arms and legs and torso all moving as a whole to torque and force him from atop her body. She got the wolf on his back just long enough to feel the jolt of him hitting the earth before he was fighting back. He wasn't using the claws she knew he had. Stiles was dimly aware in the back of her mind that he had good reason to be careful. She carried their cub, _theirs_ , and he was fighting to subdue her without causing her any harm.

She was under no such obligation with Peter's safety. Her claws tore open his clothing, rent dripping red lines down his arms and chest as they tussled. The scent of his blood sang to her, dragging her deeper into her frenzy.

He tried to hold her still, but she fought with wild abandon and broke free from his clutches over and over again. At one point, she hit him with a close-fisted strike across the jaw so hard his teeth cut his own lip and he stopped moving for a few precious seconds. It enabled her to get him under her again. She wondered if he was done, if she had proved his weakness, proved he was unnecessary.

She and her cub had no need for weakness in their lives; only the strong survived. If he wasn't strong enough to beat her, then he was useless. Worse than useless. A dead weight dragging her down.

As the thought grew form in her mind, Peter sat up and snarled in her face.

It took him less than a second to tear her off him and shove her nose down into the dirt. He was laying atop her, holding her down with a hand twisted in her hair. He was unrelenting. He was immoveable.

He was _glorious_.

She fought to get away, but it was no use. He had her pinned, and there was no escape for her this time. Something settled in her, allowing her to whimper to signal her defeat, her willingness to yield. There was no trace of shame in her for it, only a bone-deep satisfaction that she had chosen well.

His grip lessened, the pressure eased off of her. As soon as she was able, she rolled over onto her back and bared her belly to him, arched her head back to display the vulnerable line of her throat.

Peter didn't disappoint.

He covered her body with his own, burying his nose into the curve of her neck and inhaled deeply.

She growled out a soft, contented sound as she used her claws to divest him of the bloody rags that made up the remains of his shirt.

Peter was saying something, speaking words that wouldn't permeate the bubble of animal thinking that blocked out all higher thought. But the tone of the words was tender and suggestive. It encouraged her to arch her back and press herself up against his sturdy frame, offering herself up to him.

To her confusion, he started to pull away from her.

_That_ wasn't what he was supposed to do. Peter had won her, she'd submitted to him. Why wasn't he _taking_?

She snarled in confused irritation, but he was still talking. Words, words, words, she didn't want any more _words_ , she wanted him to pant with want and need and howl in his completion. She could smell his heady arousal, she had been able to feel the physical effects of it as he had lain his body over hers.

Did he think _she_ was weak for being bested by him? She would have to prove her strength and suitability to him.

Peter didn't fight her when she toppled him over on his ass and planted herself in his lap. He didn't try to stop her when she lowered her mouth to his and crushed their lips together, when she licked her way into his mouth and tasted him. His hands moved to rest on her hips as she ground down over him, feeling the thick line of his erection pressing into her ass.

She _wanted_. She knew he wanted her back in equal measure. If he wouldn't take, then it would have to be up to her to do it for him.

Her claws dug into the waistband of his pants, wanting them off, wanting him displayed for her. Her mouth watered, her body creating more slippery wetness between her legs to ease his eventual way inside.

Peter's hands moved, trying to bat her hands away from her. He wasn't even _trying_. He had just proved his superior strength and skill. He could stop her if he wanted. Instead, he pulled his head back to talk at her as his clawless fingers kept trying to distract her hands from their task.

Frustrated, she roared in his face and shoved him flat on his back. Using her claws, she tore open the cloth trapping his heavy cock and pulled the torn edges aside, revealing him to her.

His hands were on her back now, sliding across her shoulder blades with hardly any pressure as she slid down his body and bent over to press her face into the crease between his thighs. She inhaled the thick, musky arousal, giving in to temptation to lap at the sticky fluid collected at the tip of his cock.

And, _there_ , a growl burst free from him, from her Peter.

Delighted, she lifted her head and growled back at him as she shoved her pants down over her ass.

His eyes were glowing bright in the darkness, that beautiful blue that never failed to flood her core with excitement and eager interest.

The she-wolf missed the way his eyes once glowed alpha red, missed the power and dominance he should have had over her.

An alpha would never allow her to take control like this.

Not wanting to give him the chance to wriggle away from her claim, she didn't bother trying to remove her pants completely. As soon as there was space enough, she took his cock in hand and steadied him as she lowered her body over and around him, taking him into her with a shudder of content satisfaction.

_This_ was what she wanted. What they both wanted, no matter how much he feigned protestations with confusing human words and weak human acts of reluctance.

Peter's hands were back on her hips once again as she moved over him, claiming his body for her own, seeking out her pleasure. He made delicious little hissing sounds and quiet snarls, choked-off words spilling from his lips. It didn't take him long to start rocking up to meet her downward thrusts.

He bared his throat to her as she ground down. It lit a fire inside of her.

She bent her head and bit down.

Peter's hands tightened on either side of her as her teeth dug in and clamped down. Every one of his muscle groups was tight with tension, taut from his barely suppressed need to move and take and claim.

He panted, gasping for air as his hips aided her efforts to fuck his cock into her wet heat, until they snapped upward a few times— more roughly than any other movement Peter had made so far— and she felt him pulse inside her. He didn't howl like she yearned to hear, but he did let loose a loud moan, a most pleasing sound to her ears. She sat up a little, releasing her teeth from his throat and pressed her tongue to the blood that welled up. He was an assault on her senses. She smelled his release, heard the beating of his heart speed up and stutter and begin to slow back down. Tasted the coppery fresh blood in her mouth, warming her from the inside out.

She squirmed on his softening cock, whimpering quietly in her dissatisfaction at the lack of her own climax.

Peter grunted and started petting her, stroking his hands up and down in long, firm movements over her thighs, ass, flank, and back. Reluctantly, she lifted up off him and let him slip loose from her, some of his seed leaking down between her thighs.

It didn't matter. She already carried him within her, already had life growing within her belly because of him. He'd bred her well the last time she'd had him inside her. This had been for dominance, for pleasure, to make a claim.

She nuzzled her cheek against his, pleased to hear soft rumbling in his chest as she spread their scents and affirmed comfort and contentment.

Peter rolled onto his side, taking her with him, and shifted her body around so that she lay facing away from him. His hands tugged at her clothes lazily, pulling them back up around her waist. She grumbled at the realization that he wasn't going to continue where they'd left off and bring her the pleasure she'd brought him first. But he was tucking his body into hers, drawing her close and nosing at the nape of her neck with tender affection. His arms were wrapped around her lithe frame and cradling her. It was enough for now.

He was speaking again, his words sweet and pleased, and happiness thrummed through her to know she'd led him to indulge in these gentle post-mating gestures.

Peter was tired, his sleep-scent blanketing her. They were alone in these woods, outside the territory that now belonged to _that_ alpha, that _thief_ of an alpha. The two of them were surrounded by the thick scent of her sweat and his blood and their successful mating. They were safe, all three of them. And while her blood was still up, while she would have preferred to continue to rut and fight and run, to hunt down some worthy prey, she could settle in this contented moment and close her eyes and lie still beside her chosen wolf until she calmed enough to sleep.

The moon sang its siren song to her; she felt its urging deep in her bones. She ignored it in favor of the warm solid weight at her back.

Eventually, she drifted off and slept.

* * *

**Monday, April 18, 2011**

When Stiles awoke, _Stiles_ , and no longer the wolf, she was cold and alone. It was still dark out, but the sky was beginning to lighten. Sunrise couldn't be too far off.

Stiles sat up slowly, blood draining from her face. A wet, shuddering gasp for air worked its way through her chest.

"Shh, shh," she heard. It was Peter, sitting several feet away, barefoot and wearing nothing but his clawed up jeans and the stripes of dried blood which painted his skin.

_She'd done that_ , Stiles thought wildly as her body shook without her permission.

Peter stood and made his way over, kneeling in front of her. He reached up a hand to cup her cheek, heedless of the way she flinched and tried at first to pull away before calming under his touch.

"Are you all right?" he asked, voice hushed but still remarkably loud in the quiet of the predawn forest.

Stiles opened her mouth to speak, but found the words lacking. Her mouth was parched, her throat dry. Stiles swallowed a few times before attempting to speak again.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Stiles said in a weak rasp, unable to look Peter in the eye. She started shaking harder when she saw the way he had one hand on his pants, holding the fabric together so as not to fully expose himself.

Peter sighed and stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers, then slid them into her hair and started carding away little twigs and leaves that had gotten stuck between the strands.

"I'm perfectly fine, Stiles," he murmured. "It's you who I'm concerned about."

"Y-yeah," Stiles stuttered. "I'm pretty concerned about me, too."

What the _hell_ had she _done_?

Not that she needed to ask herself that. The memories were a little on the hazy side, but they were _there_. Stiles _remembered_ what she'd done. It was the why that was somewhat difficult for Stiles to grasp.

It was the _how_. How had she managed to shake off Derek's commands so easily? And, oh, god. Isaac. What had she _done_?

"Isaac?" Stiles asked desperately. "Is he—? Did I—?"

Peter's forehead creased with a frown.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I chased after you as soon as you ran off."

Stiles was in shock.

What if she—? She had clawed out Isaac's _throat_. Werewolf or not, that wasn't something someone easily shook off.

"Shh, shh, I've got you." Peter sat down and drew her into his lap. He held Stiles close and stroked her hair when she buried her face into his neck.

It wasn't helping. Stiles remembered exactly what she'd done to Peter, too.

How could he bear to hold her like this after what she did? Tears slid down Stiles' face just before she broke down into sobbing gasps against the warmth of his skin. But Peter held her close and just stroked her hair and rubbed slow circles into her back.

Part of her wanted to be angry at him. Peter told her, he'd sworn to her that he wouldn't let her hurt anyone. But she had. She'd— _Isaac_ — she'd worse than _hurt_ Isaac, hadn't she? And Peter had let her hurt him, too.

But Stiles couldn't blame Peter for any of that. Stiles couldn't blame anyone except herself.

Stiles lifted a hand to rub her face and wipe away some of her tears, and saw blood. So much blood, dried, caked into her skin.

"Oh _god_ ," Stiles choked out, breaking down even farther. "Oh god, oh god, oh god."

Peter kept offering her gentle touches and kind reassurances that it was okay, gestures and words she didn't deserve.

Stiles felt faint. Like the world was hazy and far away but still somehow pressing in all around her.

That was when Stiles came to the realization that she was having a panic attack and had started hyperventilating.

Peter picked her up, allowing his pants to fall and slip down to his ankles. With Stiles cradled in his arms, he stepped on his pants to tug his feet free without having to put her down, and started the long walk back toward Beacon Hills, fully nude.

If Stiles hadn't been a hair's breadth away from completely losing her mind, she would have had something to say about that. Several somethings, even.

As it was, Stiles couldn't do anything but gasp for breath and choke on her sobs as she held her arms tight around Peter's neck, holding on for dear life. Not because she feared him dropping her, but because she was terrified of letting go and being allowed to be loose out there in the world.

Stiles couldn't understand why he was being so damn nice to her, not after what had happened last night, not after everything she'd done. Not that Peter would probably care about Stiles kill— killing— _murdering_ Isaac. But she'd done something unforgivable to Peter as well. But he hadn't abandoned her in the woods on her own, hadn't shaken her and told her to snap out of her pity party.

Instead, he was comforting her. After all she'd done, Peter was the one comforting _Stiles_.

It was a long, slow walk back toward town, Stiles growing increasingly tired and wrung out from her distress. Peter had stopped at some point while they were back in the town limits within the forest preserve and set her down. Stiles hadn't wanted to let go, but Peter smiled and kissed her forehead, telling her they both needed to clean up, and he needed to put some pants on.

She didn't understand what he was talking about, but Stiles was aware that he wanted her to let go of him, so she did.

He walked away from her and went over to a tree with a couple of heavy rocks lying in front of it. Peter shifted the rocks away, revealing a hollowed-out space in the tree, and withdrew from it a large plastic bag. Inside, there was a container of wet wipes, a change of clothes, a plastic bottle of water, and some cash.

If Stiles were feeling less traumatized by her own actions and less disconnected and sick from her ensuing sobbing panic attack, she'd be impressed by his forward planning. She vaguely wondered how long he'd had that there.

They certainly needed it. Even aside from Peter's lack of clothing, the two of them were covered in blood despite neither one of them having so much as a scratch on them. Stiles' stomach churned when she thought about how, while most of the blood on Peter's body was his own, none of the blood on either of them was hers.

Peter knelt down beside her again and began gently cleaning the blood off her hands with a couple of wipes, stashing them in the empty bag. Once their hands were clean aside from some stubborn traces of blood buried around her nails, Peter twisted the cap off the water bottle and helped her drink from it. Her face was hot and tight from dehydration and all the crying she'd been doing. The water helped a lot.

"You can finish that if you need to," Peter told her once Stiles had a decent enough grip on the bottle to keep from dropping it. She kept taking small sips from it as Peter wiped tear streaks and blood off her face before tending to himself.

It wasn't long before he was pulling on the spare set of clothes he'd had stashed away and was fully dressed, taking her back up into his arms once more. There had even been a pair of slip-on shoes in the bag. Smart.

Dawn had come during their journey back to Beacon Hills, but it was still early yet.

Stiles was dimly aware that she had to leave for school soon.

Her dad would be up already, getting ready for work.

Stiles wasn't home. Stiles hadn't even texted him or called, having planned to be home hours ago, before he could notice her absence in the morning. She didn't even remember where she'd left her phone.

When Peter reached Stiles' jeep and buckled her up in the passenger seat, she didn't even try to argue that no one got to drive the jeep but herself. She doubted her ability to avoid hitting a tree right then, let alone drive once they hit the town proper and got into traffic.

"Am I taking you home?" Peter asked her, stroking her cheek.

Stiles slowly moved her head to face him, still not daring to look him in the eye. "Where else would I go?" she asked dully.

"My apartment?" he said. It sounded to Stiles like he was offering to take her there, but she was fuzzy enough that she couldn't be sure.

She shrugged.

"I should go home," Stiles said after a pause that went on too long, sitting back in the seat and closing her eyes.

In what seemed like no time at all, Peter was pulling into Stiles' driveway. Her dad's cruiser wasn't there.

"You should get some rest," Peter told her as he put the car into park and turned off the engine.

"Can't," Stiles said. She didn't bother trying to explain. "Thank you," she tacked on belatedly.

Peter nodded and stroked her hair one last time before they both got out of the jeep. Stiles was relieved to note her bag was in the back, containing both her cell phone and keys.

She shuffled over the front door, unlocking it and letting herself in. She turned her head toward Peter, about to offer him to come in. Offer to give him a ride home once she'd had a chance to shower and change clothes.

But he waved her off and started to walk down the street. So Stiles closed the door behind her with a weary sigh and stumbled her way to the bathroom, pausing only to drop her bag on the couch.

Stiles stared into the bathroom mirror, unsure how much time passed as she stood there, unmoving. School was low on her list of priorities, but Stiles knew she had to get moving and get ready to go there.

She flashed her eyes, taking in her reflection. Her eyes gleamed electric blue, just like Peter's had last night.

Stiles bent over and threw up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...you were warned.


	13. a slap in the face from reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _Be normal, Stiles told herself. Totally, absolutely normal. Today isn't different from any other day._ "
> 
> Stiles has difficulty handling the aftermath of her actions during the full moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on this story's stats, I apparently pissed off a lot of people with the last chapter. To all of you who are sticking with me: THANK YOU. You guys rock, and all the comments and kudos and bookmarks you've been gifting me with are what keep this story going. ♥
> 
> And since the story has been cooperating with me over the past few days and I've been writing up a storm, I decided to post the new chapter early. Hope you all enjoy it.

* * *

**Monday, April 18, 2011**

Stiles didn't know how long she spent in the shower, standing under the hot spray of water, unmoving. It took her too long to force herself to start washing herself clean. There was still some blood on her skin, and upon remembering that she still had remnants of Peter's semen inside her, both her head and stomach spun, causing her to retch.

At least she didn't throw up again.

She didn't know if it was morning sickness, or strictly a stress reaction, but it had not been pleasant. Which was a hell of an understatement.

Stiles had never second guessed her decision to become like this. She'd had her reasons, one very good reason, and she was fine with the choice she'd made. And Stiles had figured she was in less danger as a werewolf than as a human running with wolves, so nothing the Argents had done made her actually regret taking the bite. Being a werewolf had its definite downsides, but up until this point, it had been manageable.

Up until last night.

She had lost all control.

No, it was more than that. More than just a lack of control. She had felt like a completely different person. An _animal_. Stiles could remember what she'd done, but it was removed. She remembered doing those things— remembered the anger and feeling of being threatened that caused her to strike out at Isaac, remembered the lust and desire and need to take a partner— but it didn't feel like _her_. The memories felt like looking back at someone else, some other _thing_ , inside her, moving around in her body.

Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. That anger at Isaac, that was _hers_. That lust for Peter? _Hers_.

But she... but _Stiles_ wouldn't have... would have never... Stiles wouldn't _do_ those things.

Right?

Stiles sobbed, low and loud and mournful, while the water beat down on her. She hugged herself until the sobs started to hitch in her throat and the water started to cool.

_Pull it together, Stilinski. You need to pull. it. together. Don't let this tear you apart. You've survived worse. You can survive this._

Stiles blinked back tears and scrubbed at her face, telling herself this over and over again as she mechanically finished washing, removing every trace of last night's crimes.

She was cold, but more alert by the time she stepped out and dried off.

When she got to her bedroom to dress, she checked the time and saw that she'd be late for school, but not by much. It was manageable.

Was she really doing this? Stiles slumped down on the edge of her bed, staring at the handful of clean clothes she'd pulled out to wear, chosen at near-random. Just... go to school, pretend everything was okay? Pretend she hadn't maybe-killed Isaac last night? Her packmate. She might not have really liked the guy, and they sure as shit weren't friends, but she hadn't wanted him _dead_.

And Scott.

Oh, god, _Scott_. How the hell was she supposed to tell Scott what she'd done?

Stiles closed her eyes and did her breathing exercises, willing herself not to fall to pieces. Told herself she was in enough hot water with her dad without skipping school _again_ , told herself she needed to go on normally, pretend everything was just as it ever was.

Pretend she hadn't killed one of her classmates the night before in a haze of full-moon-insanity induced rage.

Stiles glanced at the clock on her bedside table and cringed inwardly.

She got dressed in a rush, wishing the weather was cool enough to wrap herself up in a thick hoodie. She could use the buffer between herself and everything else. She made do with a thin plaid button-up that was a size too large.

Stiles pressed a hand to her belly. Wouldn't be a size too large for too long, though.

"Sorry, baby," she whispered, her voice shaking. "You're not even born yet and you're already doomed in the mom department."

Stiles forced down her sorrow and regrets and grabbed her backpack.

By the time Stiles got to school, she'd missed first period entirely. She couldn't bring herself to be too upset about it; Scott was in that class, and the last thing she needed was to face him first thing. She needed some time to pull herself together before she could smile at him and pretend she hadn't spent last night covered in the blood of someone he cared about.

She picked up a late pass at the front desk and went to second period, grateful there was an empty seat in the back.

She sat down, pulled out her textbook and opened it to the page they were on and then... the bell was ringing? Class was over. That didn't make sense. She'd only been a few minutes late into the period. Stiles looked up at the clock on the wall, taking far longer than she should have needed to read the time. But once it registered in her brain, she knew the bell ringing hadn't been a mistake.

Well, the class fleeing their desks and emptying out into the hall was a major clue, too. But it really was time for her next class.

Had she fallen asleep? Or just completely blanked out?

Stiles took a few deep breaths and shoved her book back in her bag. She had to get to third period.

She had to pull it together.

She had to act like everything was normal, like everything was okay, no matter how messed up she felt.

When she arrived at her math class, she was accosted by Lydia.

_Lydia Martin_. Golden girl of the Beacon Hills public school system. Perfect clothes, perfect hair, perfect GPA. Jackson's girlfriend. Allison's friend. She was smarter than everyone around her, and most of the time, she was the only one who knew it. And she _preferred it_ that way. Lydia hung around two people who were up to their necks in the supernatural, and she was too smart not to be suspicious of what was going on around her.

Not to mention the fact that she'd been there for the big showdown with Gerard Argent and the whole 'let's make Jackson recover his humanity' intervention.

Stiles was immediately suspicious.

"You're sitting with me, today," Lydia told her, snagging her arm and dragging Stiles over to a pair of desks on the far side of the room.

"Yes ma'am," Stiles said under her breath. It wasn't quite up to her usual levels of snark and sass, but it was the best she could muster at the moment.

Lydia stared, causing Stiles to wonder if she had a blinking neon sign around her neck which read, 'I KILLED SOMEONE LAST NIGHT. ASK ME HOW.'

"What do you want, Lydia?"

Lydia wrinkled her nose in a way that Stiles wished she didn't find adorable, but was unfortunately charmed by nonetheless.

"I want you to tell me everything you know about werewolves," Lydia said in a low undertone. Her eyes didn't dart from side to side to check if anyone was eavesdropping, but Stiles was sure Lydia was completely aware of their surroundings and the need for discretion.

"Why don't you ask your _boyfriend_ ," Stiles said, teeth clenched.

She'd prefer not to think about werewolves any more than strictly necessary for the next few hours.

Lydia huffed and tossed her hair back in a clear sign that she didn't appreciate Stiles' attempt to put her off.

"Or, I don't know, Allison? Your best friend? Why are you coming to me with this?"

"I did," Lydia started to say.

The bell rang to signal the start of class, interrupting the conversation and giving Stiles at least a few minutes of breathing room from Lydia's oncoming interrogation. But it didn't take long for the teacher to start assigning busywork, leaving Stiles to Lydia's mercy, or lack thereof, once again. Unfortunately for Stiles today, their math teacher was lenient about students talking quietly during class so long as people got their work done.

"Allison told me everything she knows. That's what she said, anyway. I'm not so sure. Now I want to hear it from you."

Stiles glanced around the room, then back at the worksheet on her desk. She scribbled for a moment, making a bare attempt at getting some work done and appreciating that it had the added effect of putting off responding to Lydia's inquiry.

After finishing the first equation, she put her pencil down and looked at Lydia, leaning in toward her a little.

"What do you think I can tell you that Allison hasn't?"

"I. Don't. Know," Lydia hissed, glaring daggers Stiles' way. "That's why I'm _asking_ you. At bare minimum, I'm expecting a different perspective on the topic. Allison's from a family that hunts down people like you. I'd prefer to get both sides of the story."

Stiles bit her lip and picked up her pencil again, very careful not to snap it in half. It was harder than it should have been, but not as difficult as she had been expecting. Her control seemed so much better today. Who knew all she needed was to get a little bit of _murder_ out of her system?

"I became a werewolf two months ago. What makes you think I know anything anyway?"

Lydia's look in response to that was blistering.

"Even aside from the fact that you were presumably _there_ for all the weird stuff that's been going on around here and can offer a little _perspective_?" Lydia shook her head. "I know you. You wouldn't let anything go. You'd learn everything you could about what was happening to you and what was happening around you. Can you honestly tell me any differently?" Lydia concluded with a falsely sweet smile.

"You'd think that, wouldn't you?" Stiles muttered. "You think you _know_ me?" she said a little louder, but still quiet enough not to be heard over all the other murmured chatter in the room. "We're not friends, Lydia. As far as you've been concerned for the past seven years, I barely exist as anything other than a punchline. And, for your information, I've been a little too busy to brush up on my Lycanthropy for Dummies, okay?"

Lydia and Stiles had been something nearly like friends once upon a time. Until Stiles' mom became noticeably sick. Until Stiles actually needed friends to be there for her. Until Stiles went from being considered weird, but entertaining, to just plain weird among her classmates.

Not that Stiles was bitter or anything.

"Don't you think I deserve to know what's happening in this town?" Lydia said.

"You know what? No. No I don't. I really don't care what you do or don't know."

It wasn't entirely true, but Stiles was in a mood, and barely holding onto her sanity by a thread today. She didn't have the mental energy or emotional ability to care about Lydia Martin right at that moment. And, really, being confronted like this the day after the full moon, a full moon like last night, was possibly the worst time for her to to go to Stiles for information.

"What about Jackson?" Lydia pressed.

"What about him?" Stiles shrugged, biting down on the top of her pencil as she glared at her math. The answer to number four was eluding her, and Lydia's badgering wasn't helping matters any.

"He's like you, isn't he?" Lydia whispered harshly. "What if he loses control? Last night, Scott was there to keep him in check, but he isn't always going to be there. And what if someone else comes after him? I need all the information you have."

Stiles went cold. Jackson, losing control. Like _her_.

Not that Lydia knew what her words meant to Stiles, but the thought was... not pretty. Worse than that. A total nightmare, more like. And it was a slap in the face from reality that Stiles really couldn't handle at the moment.

"Oh my god, _fine_ ," Stiles said at last. "But not now. Maybe in a few days." Her conscience wouldn't allow her to put Lydia off for too long, but she couldn't deal with this right now.

" _Stiles_ ," Lydia said, like she doubted Stiles was going to follow through.

"I mean it. Now shut up and let me concentrate. We can't all be secret math geniuses," Stiles said, somewhat resentful.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the surprise on Lydia's face before she smoothed out her expression and busied herself with her own worksheet. She flew through all the equations, too, Stiles noted absently.

Be normal, Stiles told herself. Totally, absolutely normal. Today isn't different from any other day.

It worked, mostly, until her next class.

"I'm holding you to what you said," Lydia said to her at the end of class. "You have until the end of the week." And then she was gone, marching off down the hallway in three-inch heels and haughty determination.

"Great," Stiles told the empty air in front of her. "That's just... great."

"What's great?"

Stiles whipped around to find Scott smiling confusedly behind her.

"Also, do you know where Isaac is? He isn't at school today, and he's not answering his phone." Scott looked concerned, but only the requisite amount one would expect over a teenager missing class.

Stiles felt like she'd just been sucker punched.

"Uh. No," she said, aiming for nonchalant. By the expression on Scott's face, she missed that mark by a mile. "I don't know," she tried again. Technically true. "I'll let you know when I find out. I have to get to class."

Scott threw an arm around Stiles' shoulders and drew her in close.

" _Stiles_ ," he said, laughing as he spoke her name. "We have the same class. C'mon."

Right.

Chemistry class with Scott. Scotty. Scott freaking McCall. Her best. frickin'. friend.

Awesome. This was going to be _awesome_.

Stiles tried a smile as she shrugged out from under Scott's arm.

"Please tell me you studied over the weekend," she said as they entered the classroom, feeling too much like Hermione Granger for comfort as she did so. As much as she wanted Scott to pass his classes and make it to junior year, she really didn't want to be his babysitter.

Scott offered her a lopsided grin as they sat down.

"It's cool, I've got this," said Scott.

Stiles managed to relax a little, even with Mr. Harris droning on at the front of the class.

As relaxed as she could be with the thought of what happened with Isaac hanging over her head. With what happened after with— well. With what happened _after_.

Really, she was so messed up from the memory of Isaac's blood on her hands, both metaphorical _and_ literal, she hadn't had much time, nor the wherewithal, to consider anything else that had occurred last night. Did she even want to? On one hand, it might make a decent change from the nagging guilt gnawing at her stomach. On the other hand, no matter how she looked at it, the entire experience had been a shitshow from start to finish.

"You okay?" Scott asked her. "You look kind of... sick."

"Mister McCall! Miss Stilinski! Does this look like a social gathering to you, or a classroom?" Mr. Harris called from his desk.

Scott looked Stiles' way, then looked momentarily confused, which quickly morphed into concern. That was when it occurred to her. That had been her cue to say something sarcastic and self-effacing, or something overly conciliatory to the point of sucking up to the teacher. She didn't feel up to it. Mostly, she just felt nauseous.

"Uh..." Scott said at last.

"That was a rhetorical question, McCall."

"Yes, sir," he responded, a hint of surliness curling the edges of the word 'sir'.

"Can I be excused?" Stiles asked, not bothering to raise her hand. It felt like too much effort.

"There's twenty minutes left to class. I think you can hold it for twenty minutes," Harris said, waving a hand dismissively in the air and sneering at her.

Stiles really didn't feel like vomiting all over her desk in front of everyone.

"I'm going to throw up," she said faintly.

Harris didn't believe her, that was clear. He dragged the large metal trash bucket over from the corner of the room and set it next to her desk with a dark, tight-lipped smile.

"Here you go. Just in case."

Which, wow. Stiles should have expected this. But fine. Whatever. He wanted to play hardball? Stiles could play hardball.

"Gee, thanks, Mr. Harris," she said, tone flat and dull.

Then she bent over the side of her desk and vomited straight into the bucket.

God, she was getting sick of throwing up. She still couldn't tell if this morning sickness or if it was stress. Maybe it was a combination of the two. Whatever. Either way, it sucked. Especially considering that she would have preferred no one see her puking.

Embarrassment over performing a gross bodily function in front of other people aside, she had a bad feeling that true morning sickness was just around the corner for her. And she knew well enough that the word 'morning' was a _not_ an accurate descriptor word. The last thing she needed was for people to notice a trend of Stiles Stilinski throwing up all the time.

"Stiles!" Scott said, nearly shouting her name in horror.

Oh, yeah. Werewolves rarely needed to throw up. Unless something was really, really wrong, probably. Well, at least she wasn't puking up black, tar-like goo.

Thanks, Derek, for getting _that_ traumatic memory seared into her mind for all time.

Stiles finished expelling her guts, then spat a few times into the wastebin.

"Can I go to the nurse?" she tried again.

Harris' lips were pinched and his face was starting to turn red in anger. Probably thought she'd staged the whole scene just to be difficult.

And wow, was it ever a scene. Everyone in the classroom was staring at her. Jackson, included. Who looked less worried, and more suspicious than anything.

"Go," Harris said sharply, pointing toward the door. "Get out of my classroom. And don't think I won't be writing you up for this disruption."

Stiles rolled her eyes as she grabbed her stuff.

"So sorry you think denying a sick student a hall pass to be a 'disruption' on _my_ behalf," she said, unable and unwilling to hold her tongue. "But I'll be sure to let the nurse know how you really feel about it."

Harris looked livid as he silently wrote out a pass for Stiles to go to the nurse, but he didn't say another word to her. She decided to chalk up the incident as a draw between the two of them.

Fifteen minutes later, Stiles had a free and clear excuse to leave school early, and she was taking it. Even if her dad had been pretty upset over the phone about her being sick.

Stiles doubted the nurse had noticed it in his voice, but Stiles sure had as she listened in on the short conversation.

She was _not_ looking forward to him getting home from work today. Not at all.

Instead of driving home as she knew she should have, Stiles drove straight for Derek's loft. She needed to know for sure if she'd killed Isaac or not.

Stiles didn't know what she would do if she had.

Maybe run away and change her name.

Not that she could do that to her dad. Not now, not ever. Then again, if her dad found out what she'd done?

It didn't bear thinking about.

Stiles pulled up outside Derek's and stared up at the building. She didn't hear anything, but figured she'd give it a shot anyway. She parked, in her usual out-of-the-way spot, then slowly made her way up, fighting down the urge to be sick the entire way.

She didn't knock. She tried the door and found it unlocked, so she pulled it open all the way and walked inside.

Derek sat on the edge of his bed, head in his hands. He looked up in her direction after a few moments, and the look on his face told Stiles all she needed to know.

He was _furious_. And he was hurt. God, was he hurting.

"Derek," Stiles started, voice trembling, her eyes starting to fill with unwanted tears. "I—" Stiles' words broke. She didn't know what to say. She didn't know what to _do_.

What did one do in this situation?

She turned her head, finding herself unable to look at him. Unable to face him.

That was when she saw Isaac, standing on the other side of the room. The front of his throat was one giant red, jagged scar.

Stiles' mouth went dry.

Oh, god. He was _dead_. Wasn't he? Please don't let this be like Peter again. Stiles couldn't take another haunting.

"You're alive?" she asked, voice cracking on each word.

Isaac looked at her like she was the world's biggest idiot.

"Do you normally see dead people?" he said, raising his eyebrows.

Oh, he had _no_ idea. But that really didn't answer her question.

"He's alive," Derek said curtly from the other side of the room.

"Yeah. No thanks to you," Isaac said, although his tone was more teasing than outright hostile. It didn't matter. He could blame her as much or as little as he wanted. She knew what she did. She knew she was at fault.

Stiles dropped her hands to her knees, body bent over in half as she breathed hard. Her emotions were battling it out between relief and guilt, neither one fully defeating the other.

"Oh," she said, voice sounding breathless and far away, "okay. Good. Glad to hear it."

Isaac came over to her, looking all kinds of judgmental.

"You really thought I was dead?"

Stiles nodded.

"And it took you this long to come see Derek?"

Stiles stood back up straight, well, more or less straight, and shrugged helplessly.

"I had to..." she said, then started to laugh, a near-hysterical sound. She rubbed her face. "I had to go to school," she was finally able to say as she forced down the nervous laughter. It sounded insane. She had to go to school.

Isaac rubbed at his throat. "Nice to see you were so upset by my untimely demise." He said it sarcastically.

That was when Stiles launched herself at him.

Isaac flinched back immediately, like he expected a second attack. But Stiles ignored the guilt that poured over her at the sight of his cringing and threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly and burying her face in his shoulder.

"I was a fucking wreck, you asshole!" she said into his shirt. "I thought I killed you!"

Stiles pulled back, almost shoving herself away from him.

"That's never happening again."

Isaac smirked a little.

"The attempted murder, or the hugging?" he asked her. Honestly, he was taking nearly being killed way better than anyone should. Or he put on a really good show at handling it well.

"Both," she replied, deadpan. Stiles might have cracked a joke about not being so sure about the murder part, but it was too soon. It was way too soon. She still felt sick and shaky just thinking about it.

Derek stood up sharply, the slight creak of his bedsprings as their only sound of warning.

"What the hell is wrong with the two of you?" he shouted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the place where I voice my amusement that some of you (*waves*) are as paranoid and disbelieving of character death in media as I am. And some other readers... are probably disappointed Isaac isn't dead? Uh. :\ Sorry? I guess?
> 
> Everyone in this fic is going to be an asshole at some point. To Stiles, even. Even Stiles will be an asshole to Stiles at times. I'm not going to tell you how to feel. I, for one, don't actually like Isaac very much in canon. And there are other characters I simply can't stand at all.
> 
> All of you! (*points*) You hate who you wanna hate! (*cheers*) But I'm trying to be fair to all the characters in this fic. They're all awful people at times. Because they're people. And people? Are awful. But sometimes they're awesome! So, most of these assholes occasionally get to be awesome, too. ...Very occasionally.
> 
> Look, what I'm saying is this: I love hearing how you feel about this fic. I love hearing how you feel about these characters I'm manipulating to do my bidding for the sake of a (ridiculously long) fan fic. I apologize if you were excited about Isaac's death and feel betrayed by his continued existence.
> 
> But good news! That 'character death' tag IS NOT a fake-out. At least one character from the main cast of the show WILL DEFINITELY die! Probably two. No more than three, I don't think. This is a WiP. I'm still ironing out the details. NO ONE is safe! (Stiles is safe. Stiles is always safe.)
> 
>    
> Real quick, two things:
> 
> Lydia was never bitten by Peter at the end of S1 in this universe, her banshee powers were never unlocked. She didn't suffer the psychological torment he put her through to get her to bring him back from the dead. Lydia has had very minimal involvement in the supernatural, and at the moment she is still much more like the S1 version of Lydia than the Lydia from S3. Jackson has not moved away.
> 
> Final note: Stiles still has no idea that blue eyes on a werewolf signify someone who has murdered someone. And if you look over the earlier chapters, before chapter 12 I've never once said what color Stiles' eyes glow. Just a ~fun~ little tidbit to consider. :)


	14. fun for the whole family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _Isaac looked supremely uncomfortable, his body language telling Stiles just how little he wanted to have this conversation._ "
> 
> Everyone is unhappy with the current situation.

* * *

**Monday, April 18, 2011**

"You nearly died, Isaac! Do you not get that?" said Derek, furious. The scent of his anger was sharp and bright and sour enough on the air to make Stiles groan aloud in discomfort.

Isaac didn't look too much better, but Stiles highly doubted it was due to the urge to be violently sick.

"I get that, Derek," Isaac said, shrinking away from Derek's temper.

Stiles got the feeling Derek noticed Isaac's body language as strongly she she had, based on the way he took a deep breath and visibly calmed himself.

"It isn't something to joke about," Derek said, crossing his arms and tucking his chin down toward his chest.

"Well," Stiles said, "it's either that or burst into tears. And I don't know about you guys, but I'm _way_ too tired for that." It was true, but it was more that she was exhausted from the guilt and the grief and all the crying she'd already done today. Add that to the increased activity last night, minimal sleep, and the toll being repeatedly sick was taking on her, and you got one very worn out Stiles. She usually wasn't the napping sort, but she could really go for a few hours in bed right about then, just her and her pillow.

Unfortunately, she had to deal with her own mess first.

"You should text Scott or something," she said to Isaac. "He was asking about you and I had no idea what to tell him."

"Because you thought I was dead," said Isaac, raising his eyebrows.

"Uh. Yeah."

"Because you thought you _killed me_ ," he reiterated.

"Yep," said Stiles.

Derek stared at the two teenagers and slowly shook his head in disbelief. He lifted a hand and dragged it through his hair, drawing Stiles' attention.

The guy looked like hell, now that she thought about it.

And when Stiles thought about it, _really_ thought about it, she felt that guilt rear back up again. So far, she'd only been concerned with how attacking Isaac had affected _her_. Scott, too, but that was still about her, in a roundabout way. She hadn't stopped to think how badly it must have affected Derek.

He'd already lost so many pack members. And Stiles had very nearly just cost him another. Had _thought_ she had. But Stiles had been so focused on herself that she hadn't spared Derek a single thought.

Jeez. If they handed out awards for World's Worst Friend, that would be her. If they were friends. Well, they were kind of friends? Packmates. Yeah. They were pack.

"C'mere, Big Guy," she said to Derek, throwing her arms out in the universal 'hug me' signal. He didn't move, just shot her an incredulous look. Stiles wagged her hands in the air. "Cooome on," she said, using the tone of voice someone might use with a skittish wild animal, "you can do it. Bring it in."

"No."

"Isaac got a hug! You're telling me _you_ don't want a hug?" Stiles said, aghast. "I'll have you know, I give _awesome_ hugs."

" _No_ ," Derek said again, but this time his eyebrows twitched.

"Isaac, tell Derek I give awesome hugs."

Isaac snorted and shook his head. "Not happening," he told her.

"But you didn't say it wasn't true!" she crowed. "I'll take it. Come on, Alphapants. Gimme a hug before I think you don't like me anymore."

"You're assuming I ever liked you," Derek said. The scent of anger was receding, slowly being taken over by a burnt-sugary sweetness. He was growing amused by her antics.

Which, in Stiles' book, was a win. For her, for Derek, for everybody. Especially since the sweeter scent didn't aggravate her nausea so much.

"Well that was uncalled for," she huffed, even as a small smile worked its way onto her face without her permission. "Look, my arms are staying like this until someone gets a hug. It's a rule. If you don't let me hug you, I'm going to have to hug Isaac. Please don't make me hug Isaac again."

"Yeah," Isaac chimed in, "don't make her hug me again. I might break out in a rash."

"Ooh, sick burn," Stiles said coolly, throwing a sardonic look Isaac's way, "but the feeling's mutual." She turned her attention back to Derek. "Come _on_ , dude, my arms are getting tired, here."

Derek made a noise like a man suffering from excruciating agony, but he moved over to stand in front of Stiles. Stiles threw her arms around him and hugged him as he stood there stiff as a board. Finally, after a horrifying length of time to Stiles' point of view, he lifted an arm and patted her awkwardly on the back.

Stiles pulled away and offered up a lopsided smile. "There. See? Hugs. Fun for the whole family." She looked over her shoulder at Isaac. "And the weird friend nobody actually likes, but keeps showing up to the barbecues."

"It's sad when you put yourself down like that, Stiles," Isaac shot back.

"Children, _please_ ," said Derek with a helpless sound of desperation in his voice before Stiles could respond to Isaac.

"Sorry, _Dad_ ," Stiles said instead, rolling her eyes. "So, why isn't Isaac dead? And, I can't believe I'm saying this, but that's not a complaint."

Derek tensed. The room went quiet for a minute.

"It was close," Derek said at last. "He... he lost a lot of blood."

Stiles didn't know what to say to that. It wasn't anything she hadn't expected to hear— wow, the guy whose throat she tore open with her bare hands, claws, whatever, lost a lost of blood, wow, big surprise— but that didn't mean it was _easy_ to hear spoken out loud.

Isaac, on the other hand, sort of shuffled from foot to foot before finally breaking the silence by saying, "I'm, uh, gonna go text Scott and let him know I'm okay."

Stiles' eyes popped open wide in concern for whatever Isaac might let spill. But when she opened her mouth to speak, Isaac cut her off.

"Don't worry. I'm not going to tell him you went all slasher horror flick on me."

"Right," Stiles croaked. "Right. Good. Uh. Thanks?" Did one thank somebody for that kind of thing? Oh, hey, thanks for not telling our mutual friend how I'm a danger to be around and very nearly murdered you the other night? Then another, worse feeling went through her, when she thought about everything Isaac had already been through at the hands of someone he was supposed to be able to trust. Normally, she didn't spare any sympathy or consideration for the guy, but it seemed more than a little awful to ask him to cover for her over this.

"No," she said, as Isaac started to walk away. "You know what? You tell him whatever you need to." Stiles' words were catching in her throat, but as subjectively awful as she could be, this was one line she couldn't bring herself to cross. For a whole host of reasons. Reasons she was very carefully not letting her mind delve too deep into, because she really didn't want to think about them.

"You don't have to cover for me. I... I did that. I mean, _god_ , look at you," she said, gesturing toward Isaac, whose throat was a reddened mess of scar tissue. Stiles didn't know what his stomach must have looked like, but she was fairly certain she didn't _want_ to know. She was already going to have nightmares over last night. Why borrow trouble and make them worse?

Isaac looked supremely uncomfortable, his body language telling Stiles just how little he wanted to have this conversation.

"I'm just saying... don't let me influence your decision on what you want to tell him."

Stiles was never this selfless.

And, really, a big part of her was screaming internally, _WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?_ even as the rest of her knew she was doing the right thing. The only thing she felt she could do in this situation and still be able to look at herself in the mirror without feeling disgust and disappointment at the sight of her own face.

So, maybe this wasn't so selfless an act, either.

 _That_ , she could live with.

God, she was going to be sick.

"Do you guys have any crackers?" she asked the room at large.

Isaac looked at her like she'd lost her mind.

"Preferably saltines," she added, turning the ol' puppy dog eyes on Derek. "Or oyster crackers. Do you have oyster crackers?"

"Okay. I'm going to go now," Isaac said slowly. "Just... going to go text Scott and tell him or not tell him whatever." His voice grew fainter as he headed up the stairs to the second floor.

Stiles really didn't care anymore.

Mostly, she really didn't want to throw up again that day. If she wasn't a werewolf, her throat would probably be as raw on the inside as Isaac's was on the outside.

"Cracker me," she told Derek, wide eyed. He looked toward the small kitchen set up they had in the loft, but didn't move away from where he stood. "Help me, Obi-wan Kenobi. Your crackers are my only hope."

"I don't think we have any," said Derek at long last. Ignoring her desperate, impassioned plea for necessary cracker-related sustenance like the jerk he was. "I think we have some chips?" he said.

Stiles would give him points for trying if she wasn't so busy focusing on keeping down what little water she'd had to drink that day. Stiles hadn't attempted eating anything, and, honestly, she still wasn't so sure she should. But she felt _awful_ , so, so very awful, and she figured crackers were her best bet.

"Derek, I swear to god, if I puke all over your floor, I will _not_ be the one cleaning it up."

That seemed to surprise him.

"Oh. Uh, hang on."

To Stiles' surprise, Derek was over in the kitchen, immediately starting to fuss around in there. She walked over, staring at the strangeness. Derek helping to set the table at her house was nothing compared to watching him.... What _was_ Derek doing? It looked like he was making tea?

"Sorry about the crackers," he said, in what Stiles thought was meant to be an offhanded sort of way. Except he was exuding... was that _embarrassment_? Or maybe shame? The scent was familiar but also not. "I'll pick some up the next time I'm out."

Again, Stiles really needed to put in an effort to learn what different emotions smelled like. Not that she thought shame and embarrassment would be distinguishable from the other— (Or maybe they would. What did she know?)— but it would be nice to get a base to work from. Stiles constantly felt like she was the one kid who always showed up to class unprepared when it came to figuring out her new senses and abilities.

"Here," Derek told her, handing her a bag of pita bread. "Is this okay?"

Stiles took the bag reflexively and stared down at it.

"Yeah, yeah. This is. This is fine?" she said, pulling one out. She shoved it in her mouth so she could use both hands to tie the bag up and hand it back over to Derek.

"I'm making you some ginger tea with honey. Do you like ginger? It's supposed to be good for... you know," he said awkwardly.

"Nausea?" she asked, knowing he was skirting around the words 'morning sickness' and amused by it. Even if it was smart to avoid saying the words with Isaac around. Didn't make it any less funny. Stiles nibbled at her bread. "And that's fine, too. I've never had it in tea form, but ginger's okay."

By the time she'd eaten half the piece of bread at an appallingly slow pace, Derek was setting a cup of hot tea in front of her. The sick feeling in her belly was already starting to ebb away, but Stiles wasn't going to turn down tea from _Derek Hale_. Who was _fussing_. Over _her_.

This was a comedy goldmine.

Derek Hale, secret mother hen. It was _adorable_.

She hadn't known Derek capable of adorable.

Stiles thanked him between tiny nibbles, somewhat alarmed to see him staring at her expectantly. _Oh_. He wanted her to try the tea.

"I'll just... wait for this to cool down a little, yeah?"

"Oh. Right." Derek stared at her for a few seconds, then seemed to catch himself doing it and turned away.

Stiles took a few more bites to settle her stomach and eyed the cup of tea warily, wondering when it would be cool enough to drink.

"What happened last night? Can't happen again."

Stiles looked up at Derek, who was standing in front of her, looking miserable and awkward and ten other different ways that didn't make Stiles feel any better.

"Sure. I completely agree." Stiles frowned, feeling bitter and angry with herself. "But what do I do?"

Derek shook his head.

" _We_. What do _we_ do. We're pack," he said to her, his words soft but also somewhat intense.

Stiles wanted to say something sarcastic and off-the-cuff there. She really did. But Derek was being so earnest. Stiles felt a little like bits and pieces of herself were becoming slowly unravelled, and Derek was being weirdly nice?

Sure, he'd yelled a little, before, but Stiles had expected so much worse of a reaction, even under the best of circumstances.

She had nearly killed Isaac last night, and now Derek was making her _tea_ and making like _pack_ was the end-all, be-all to life's problems.

"Is it really that easy?" she asked. "Just say, 'We're pack and therefore we'll figure this all out," and we _do_?"

"Not even close."

Stiles didn't know what to say to that, so she held her tongue.

"He's going to be okay," Derek said after a minute of awkward silence. "A few more hours and he'll have finished healing."

Physically okay? Sure. Stiles wasn't so sure about the emotional side of things.

"Why is he healing so slowly?" she asked, keeping her voice down to a near whisper.

Derek shook his head. "I don't know."

Stiles glared at the mug in front of her. She hated not knowing things. Hated it more when she looked for the answers and couldn't find them.

Derek frowned a little, then suddenly cocked his head to the side. "I'm going to go check on Isaac. Drink your tea." He stood abruptly and headed up the stairs.

"Yeah. Sure. Me and my tea. All alone. While something's going on upstairs that I wasn't invited to. Ab-so-lutely." Stiles looked down at the mug and took a hesitant sip. It wasn't too hot to drink anymore, and, even better, it didn't taste too bad.

She did not feel guilty in the slightest for making a concentrated effort to sharpen her hearing and listen in on what was going on upstairs.

" _I don't want to hear it_ ," she heard Isaac say.

" _Hear what?_ " Stiles wished she could see Derek's face. The guy didn't talk enough to get a read on him without him being in the room. And even then, it wasn't exactly easy.

" _That it wasn't her fault._ "

" _I didn't come here to tell you that._ "

" _Why not?_ " There was a brief pause, then Isaac started speaking again. " _It_ wasn't _her fault._ "

" _Okay._ "

" _'Okay?' That's all you have to say?_ "

Stiles started to feel uncomfortable at her eavesdropping, but she wanted to hear this. Besides, what was a little spying between friends? Well. Maybe not 'friends'. Pack, yes. But not friends. In any case, Stiles was fine with being nosy.

She took another sip of her tea.

" _What do you want me to say? That I failed both of you last night? That I'm sorry? Because I did, and I am. I didn't come up here to lecture you. I wanted to make sure you're okay with Stiles being here._ "

Isaac's voice was almost too quiet to hear when he responded, " _And if I'm not?_ "

Stiles stared down at her tea, grimacing.

Maybe she shouldn't have come over. She had a phone; she could have called Derek. She could have left once she saw that Isaac was okay. But here she was, in Isaac's home, invading his personal space, being loud and drawing all the attention to herself. Same old Stiles.

" _I can tell her to leave. Give you a few days of not having her around you._ "

" _And if I need more than that? If I wanted her out of the pack?_ "

Stiles would love to hear the answer to that one. Peter had more or less said that Derek was thinking about Stiles along the lines of family as much as he thought of her as pack. But... it was Peter. Could she really trust that what he said was entirely true? Or, even if it was, was that enough for Derek to side with her over the beta he'd turned himself, rather than Peter's sloppy seconds? She waited, wondering momentarily if her ears were failing her, only to realize Derek was taking his sweet time in answering Isaac's question. Eventually, he spoke up.

" _Is that what you want?_ "

Stiles felt a brief wave of dizziness at the non-answer. But not surprise.

" _What I want is to hear the answer to my question,_ " Isaac said in a harsh, albeit hushed tone.

" _I can make sure you don't have to spend a lot of time around with her if you're too uncomfortable. But I'm not..._ " Derek made a noise of frustration. Probably with himself, if Stiles had to guess. " _We don't abandon pack._ "

Maybe not anymore, Stiles thought, mind going back to Peter being left behind in Beacon Hills, in a coma, for six long years. Not that Derek was the alpha back then. It didn't make it any less true that Peter had been a pack member abandoned, left alone to waste away. Maybe this was Derek learning from that mistake.

" _I should have paid more attention, protected you better. Last night was my fault._ "

Stiles rolled her eyes. That was Derek. Ever the martyr.

" _So that's a 'no'. What if I wanted to leave?_ "

" _That's your choice._ "

Oh, ouch, Stiles thought. Of course Derek didn't get mushy and reassure Isaac how much he wanted him to stay. That wasn't Derek. But, the thing was, Stiles was uncomfortably beginning to understand Isaac better than she'd like. It was harder to keep resenting him that way. Not that she was planning to stop any time soon, but it wasn't going to be as effortless as it had been.

The two of them were more alike in some ways than she'd prefer, that much was certain.

Isaac wanted Derek to tell him that he was wanted. He needed to hear it as badly as Stiles had always needed to hear it from the people in her life. But Derek didn't get that. He couldn't even begin to fathom that kind of stubborn refusal to ask for validation while seeking it out regardless. Derek was the sort of person who accepted the fact that he wasn't going to get any, and fed off that self-loathing to fuel his overprotective behavior.

Stiles sighed. _Boys_. She wasn't the most touchy-feely person. She wasn't an expert on her own emotional landscape. Introspection on that level was for braver souls than she. But this? This was just _sad_.

"For god's sake," she shouted up at the ceiling, "tell him you don't want him to leave and hug it out, already! Or make it an awkward shoulder pat. I'm not picky! Just stop sucking so hard at communication for _once_ in your life!"

Nobody said anything for a few moments. Stiles counted her heartbeats, until she heard Isaac speak up.

" _You're sure you don't want her out of the pack?_ "

" _Unfortunately._ "

Stiles would have pumped a fist into the air if she wasn't remembering saying almost the same thing about Scott to Peter once upon a time. And if she was more sure the movement wouldn't bring back the nausea.

Mostly the first thing, though.

She and Isaac were _definitely_ more alike than she'd prefer.

Stiles raised her voice again, although not quite as loudly, and said, "Right, well, this has been _great_ , and I'm going to go. Glad I didn't murder you, Isaac. You boys have fun!"

She was out the door before either one of them could respond, and she made a point not to listen in any more. Some things Stiles simply didn't want to hear.

Complaints about her lack of boundaries or concept of privacy, for starters.

It was time she went home, anyway. Mostly to curl up in bed and maybe secretly cry into her pillow for a while. Stiles was not handling things near as well as she pretended.

It was a relief, finding out that she hadn't killed someone while she was... feral? Was that the right word for it? But knowing she narrowly missed killing Isaac was a far cry from 'not _attempting_ to kill Isaac', and there was nothing that could change that fact. And then there was the thing she'd very carefully been avoiding thinking about.

Peter.

Peter, who hadn't seen shaken up or upset or hurt by what she'd done to him. Stiles was. Stiles most definitely, absolutely was.

She didn't know how to broach the subject with him, either. Wasn't sure she was ready to. Wasn't sure she ready to even speak to him at all.

Should Stiles wait for him to contact her first? Or was this one of those, 'apologize immediately and back off until he's ready to talk' kind of situations? Stiles was terrible at these sorts of decisions.

As Stiles turned onto her street and drove nearer to her house, she soon realized that it didn't really matter for the time being. Because her dad's cruiser was in the driveway.

Her dad's cruiser was in the driveway, in the middle of the day, and he was sitting on the front steps.

He did not look pleased.

Stiles was tempted to keep going, keep driving down the street. Not that it would do her any good. It would take less than five minutes for a deputy to flag her down and haul her off back home. That knowledge didn't stop her from being tempted, however.

So, Stiles parked. She got out of her jeep, taking great pains _not_ to procrastinate and draw things out. When she was a few feet away, her father stood up and put out his hand, palm-side up.

"Keys," he said.

Stiles grit her teeth, but pulled her keyring back out of her pocket and dropped it into his outstretched hand.

"Phone."

Stiles started to open her mouth to protest, then thought better of it. She snapped her jaw shut and dug into her bag for her cell phone. Her dad plucked it out of her fingers before she could hand it over.

"Get inside."

Her dad didn't sound angry; he sounded weary.

She would have preferred angry. Angry would have meant shouting, and slammed doors, and Stiles sneaking out of the house at night. She didn't know what to do with weary. Disappointed. Tired of dealing with how much trouble Stiles always caused.

Stiles kept her mouth shut and trudged inside, wondering how long she was going to be grounded for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized shortly after posting Chapter 13 that the science classes sit at lab tables, not desks. ...one more thing to get added to my story back-edits, I suppose. Which I am still working on!
> 
> Chapter 15 will be up in a week, unless a minor miracle occurs and I manage to write several chapters over the next few days. So: chapter 15 will be up in a week.
> 
> UP NEXT: A little bit of the sheriff, a little bit of Peter, and a whole lot of Stiles' life being shitty. I know, you're all so surprised by that last part.


	15. magic 8 ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _Maybe she would take a nap. That sounded like an excellent plan. She'd only been craving one all day long._
> 
>  _That was when she heard the sound._ "
> 
> Stiles would like for today to be over already, thank you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: Chapter 16 may be a few days late.

* * *

**Monday, April 18, 2011**

Stiles sat on the edge of the couch, digging the toes of her sneakers into the carpet.

This sucked. Which was a gross understatement, but she didn't have better words to describe it. It just sucked.

Her dad wasn't saying anything yet. But his scent was all over the place, and Stiles didn't even know where to begin to try to pull apart the different emotional cues of each layer. She had some pretty good guesses as to what he was feeling, though. And her nose had nothing to do with it. Stiles knew her dad well enough to see the writing on the wall.

She knew him well enough to know she was in serious trouble.

Her dad sat down across from her, wearing his Cop Face. That was how Stiles always thought about it, anyway. That look he got when he was dealing with a suspect, when he was expecting every word out of the other person's mouth to be a lie. The look he wore when he was tired of playing other people's games.

That hurt. She joked a lot about her feelings being hurt, and there was usually truth buried under the sarcasm and dumb comments. But it never hurt this bad. And she wasn't in the mood to laugh about it.

"Where were you last night?" her dad said at last.

Stiles started to speak, but her dad held up a hand and cut her off.

"And before you think about lying to me, I'll tell you where I know you weren't. Your bed. Anywhere else in this house. Scott's house. I called Heather's mother, and you weren't there, either."

Stiles hadn't hung out with Heather since middle school. Her dad must have been desperate to find her somewhere even vaguely familiar. Also, wow, it was nice to remember she didn't really have any friends other than Scott. And only barely him, these days.

What the hell was she going to say? And what time was it that he realized she wasn't home?

Her dad had gone to bed early last night, which at the time Stiles had considered a stroke of good luck on her part. She'd snuck out. Stiles hadn't bothered to lie about staying at Scott's overnight; she had assumed she'd be home long before morning and well before her dad would be up to find her bed empty.

_Poor planning comes back to bite you in the ass, Stilinski._

"I used department resources to track down Derek Hale's address. And I'd like to say it was a relief not to find you there, but it wasn't. Doubly so when his vehicle was nowhere to be found in the area either. So I'm going to ask you again. Where were you last night?"

Stiles opened her mouth to speak, but found herself speechless. She didn't know what to say. She couldn't tell him the truth, but she also didn't have a lie ready to tell.

Her dad waited, but Stiles didn't have anything. No words. Not a one. Eventually, he shook his head.

"Not going to tell me? Fine. I'll tell _you_."

Stiles felt her eyes widen of their own volition.

"Your jeep was located in the preserve, parked not far from the old Hale family estate. You weren't in it, but it didn't look like there had been any foul play involved, either. And, _strangely enough_ ," he continued, "another car was parked nearby. Care to take a guess whose car that was?"

Stiles licked her lips and turned her head. She couldn't look at him any more. She wasn't strong enough to deal with that look aimed at her.

"Derek Hale, Stiles. _Derek Hale_?"

She shrugged, for lack of a better response.

What could she tell him? The truth was out, lying was probably not going to go over well, and that didn't leave much room for anything else.

"You were in the forest preserve, which, by the way, is home to all those dangerous _mountain lions_ we've been getting in town lately. Middle of the night. With Derek Hale." Her dad shook his head. "You get sent home from school because you were throwing up. And I called the school after I got off the phone with the nurse, so I also know you were late. Late enough to completely miss your first class. Were you _drinking_ last night?"

Stiles was gnawing on her bottom lip, staring at the floor. This was bad. This was really bad.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't have your boyfriend arrested."

Stiles lifted her head fast enough to make her neck crack.

" _What_?" Stiles did not have a boyfriend. The closest thing she had to a boyfriend was a middle aged man who'd gotten her pregnant, but Peter Hale was in no way her _boyfriend_. They weren't even— well. Last night. Last night happened, but that was all _her_ , not him. He wasn't. They weren't.

"You're really going to sit here and pretend there isn't something going on between you and Hale?"

Stiles' mouth went dry, her heart racing a mile a minute.

Then she realized she was projecting. Her dad wasn't talking about _Peter_. Peter wasn't anywhere in the vicinity of this conversation. He was talking about...

"You think I'm secretly dating _Derek_?" Oh. The emphasis should have been on 'dating', not on 'Derek'. "Because I'm not. I'm not secretly dating _anyone_ , but even if I was— which I am _not_ — it wouldn't be _Derek_! He's all— And I'm all— And have you _seen_ him?"

It occurred to Stiles that she maybe wasn't helping matters any. But her mouth wouldn't stop.

"Derek and I aren't together. We're not. That's not even within the realm of possibility. He is so out of my league it isn't funny."

Her dad raised an eyebrow.

"What? I'm not _blind_ ," Stiles said, forging on. "But Derek being gorgeous doesn't make up for his personality. He makes for an okay friend, I guess, but there is no way I would date someone that grumpy and brooding. And, for the record, I wasn't drinking last night! I'm just sick!"

He wasn't buying it. Any of it.

She wasn't even _lying_. Okay, so maybe 'I'm just sick' was stretching the truth by... a lot. But she didn't say she had the stomach flu or anything specific. She was just sick. Sick as in the act of being sick. Sick as in vomiting. So she wasn't lying.

"If you didn't sneak out last night to meet up with your boyfriend, who is _too old_ for you to be dating, or to drink alcohol, which you are _too young_ to be doing anyway, then why were you out in the woods all night?"

Okay. That was a lot more difficult to explain.

"Uh." Stiles blurted out the first thing she could think of. "Pagan rituals under the full moon?"

Her dad wasn't amused.

"You're grounded. Indefinitely. No car, no phone. You can take the bus to school or walk. I expect a phone call from the house phone every day after you get home from school. No friends over, no leaving the house. I've already taken your laptop."

Stiles opened her mouth to protest that she needed it for school, but her dad held up a hand to silence her.

"You can use your laptop for schoolwork at the table, under my supervision. Any homework you don't need a computer for will be done before I get home. Are we clear?"

Stiles hoped she had remembered to clear her browsing history. She was pretty sure she had. Plus, the computer was under password protection. But that didn't mean her dad wouldn't force her to open it up to see what she'd been up to.

She was glad she was paranoid enough to sanitize her text messages regularly. Because this whole situation could have been a whole lot worse than it already was. And that was saying something.

"By 'indefinitely', do you mean—"

"Go to your room.

Stiles snapped her jaw shut and went to her room without another word.

It wasn't worth it.

Stiles closed the door behind her and looked around the room, staring blankly at her things. Her laptop for one— or rather, the lack of her laptop— which was noticeably missing from her desk. She was too tired to feel much of anything aside from apathy. And some of that was genuine, physical tiredness. But the emotional exhaustion was front and center, and Stiles was done. Done worrying, done stressing, done caring.

Oh, if only it were that easy. To simply decide to just... _not_ feel. She wished it was so easy. Because Stiles was at that point where, if she _could_ , she'd turn it off. No more concern over Isaac, a guy she didn't even like. No more fear about her lack of control, about hurting more people. No more worrying about Peter's going off the deep end again, or his reaction to what she did last night. No more stressing about her dad, and what she was going to do about how _fucked_. _up_. things had gotten between them. No more need to be helpful and proactive with helping Derek be a damn alpha! No more taking Derek's emotional needs into account, making his problems hers to fix. No more caring about what Scott's grades were like, or if he was being safe, or if he was doing something stupid like chasing after a werewolf hunter's werewolf-hunting daughter!

Stiles wanted to be completely and unequivocally done giving a fuck about everyone and everything in her life. She had her own shit to deal with. She was pregnant. She was, jeez, she was going to have a baby. She needed to get her shit together. She needed to be able to focus on her own things because _her_ needs were this baby's needs and—

Stiles dropped to the floor and pulled her knees up under her chin.

Was this the dumbest decision she'd ever made? It might just be. Stiles couldn't take care of herself at the moment, let alone a baby. And she was so insistent on taking care of everyone around her.

A dark, insidious little voice whispered to her from the back of her mind.

 _When will someone take care of me? When is it_ my _turn?_

She wiped back the tears that were clumping in her eyelashes, not letting them drip down her cheeks.

That wasn't fair, she told herself. It wasn't even true. Other people took care of her, too. No one asked her to drive herself crazy trying to manage their life. Hell, most people resented her for it. It was a task she took upon herself to do; no one made her do it.

It wasn't fair for her to think that way.

That didn't mean she felt it any less.

Stiles sniffed and rubbed under her nose with the cuff of her shirt as she pushed herself to her feet. She needed a distraction, not to just sit in the middle of her room, crying over how life wasn't _fair_ and how _poor Stiles_ had it _so hard_.

That was when she remembered the books she'd liberated from Peter's possession. That cheered her a little. She had brought them home, shoved them under her bed, and promptly forgotten all about them.

Stiles knelt by her bed and rooted around down there, digging out the books Peter had 'let' her borrow. She smirked to herself a little, her fingers tracing over the cover text. It would be more accurate to say she stole them from Peter, or borrowed them against his protests, but.... She dropped the smirk and frowned. But that line of thinking only brought back her feelings of guilt and disgust with herself.

She situated herself on the floor between her bed and the wall and set one of the books in her lap. Stiles glanced over at her bedroom door. She was reasonably sure her dad wouldn't just walk in without knocking.

Peter was a problem. Well, not _Peter_ , per se, so much as it was Stiles, who didn't know how to handle him right now. Or handle herself, maybe? She'd talked to Isaac and Derek already. Had she apologized? She thought she had. Well. It was implied, anyway. But how does one go about apologizing to Peter Hale?

It ought to be the same as apologizing to anybody. In theory. But Peter wasn't _anybody_. He was, and, wow, she hated to think this, no matter how true it was, but he was so much more to her than that. He was the person who made her into a werewolf. He was the first, the _only_ person she'd ever been with. He was the wolf her more animalistic side apparently yearned for. He was the man who had gotten her pregnant, who she hoped would be there to help raise her baby alongside her.

Had last night ruined whatever weird friendship— could she call it that?— the two of them had? Was he feeling hurt? Angry? _Violated_? Stiles felt all of those ways, and she'd been the one responsible.

She leaned back, letting her head lay against the side of her mattress and kicked out her foot to hit the wall. Not hard, just enough to make a small thud, and waited, contemplating matters. It would be better to be caught with an old, creepy-looking book than with a cell phone she shouldn't have. And the book made for perfect cover.

No reason why she couldn't look at the books and try her hand at texting Peter. Gauge how he was feeling.

Plus, she still hadn't had a chance to really look at them. And she wanted to. She really, really wanted to. Peter had had so few books set out in his living room, and she had two of them. What made them so special? They definitely looked antique, and one of them looked like it had been hand written, perhaps a journal. Should she be wearing gloves when she handled them? But Peter hadn't said anything about it when she took them. She figured it was safe enough, as long as she was careful with them. God forbid if she returned them with wrinkled pages or dog-eared corners.

Peter would probably murder her, and they'd never find the body.

Oddly cheered by the morbid turn her thoughts were taking, Stiles dug in her bookbag and fished out the makeup case she had Peter's phone hidden in. She'd been charging it off and on when her dad was at work, so at least the battery wasn't too low. She set the book in her lap, and the phone on top of the open pages.

There was a text from Peter, sent a few hours ago, late that morning.

' _Are you feeling better?_ '

Did he send that just to be polite? Ignoring everything she did, and decided to check in on her? Stiles snorted as she thought it over. Peter. Polite. For no ulterior reason?

Yeah, right.

Since he had led off with that, rather than anything cold or accusatory, she felt it was safe enough to text back without addressing giant elephant in the room. That was something she'd rather do in person.

' _my dad thinks i snuck out last night to get drunk and have sex with my much older boyfriend and now i'm grounded._

' _"indefinitely"_ '

Peter didn't respond right away.

Stiles set the phone to vibrate and put it aside, deciding to dive in to reading the book. It was the one with actually printed text, because she didn't want to face the nightmare of trying to decode old-timey script when she was already stressed out and distracted.

To her delight, the book she had chosen appeared to be fairy-tales, and they sure as hell weren't the Disney approved stories. They didn't even follow the more traditional tales she'd read, either. These were... well, fascinating was the best way to describe it. She was beginning to think these might be the _werewolf_ approved versions of different folk tales.

Stiles had gotten so absorbed in her reading that when she heard a knock at her bedroom door, she startled, flailing enough that she fell over onto her side with a yelp.

"Yeah?" she called out. The door opened a crack.

"I'm heading back to the office," her dad said. "Remember what I said. You don't leave, no one comes over."

"Right-o, daddio," said Stiles, saluting her ceiling. He couldn't see her anyway, so she didn't care how over-the-top it was.

He closed the door and left, stopping at a point in the house on his way out. Stiles knew exactly where he stopped. There was a picture of her mother set out there.

" _God, Claudia. I wish you were here. What am I going to do with her?_ "

Stiles clenched her hands into fists, barely aware how little effort it took to keep her claws from popping out. She was too busy cursing herself for being insufferably nosy, for listening in on things she really wished she hadn't listened in on.

She flopped out onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

"Mom's the last person you should be asking for advice, Dad," she whispered.

Stiles stayed there for a while, book forgotten entirely, until she heard the tell-tale buzz of the phone going off. She didn't want to sit up, didn't want to look at it. She didn't want to face reality at the moment. Stiles mostly wanted to curl up in bed and wallow in her misery.

She decided she could do both. The books went back in their hiding space. Stiles kicked off her sneakers, shucked off her jeans, and crawled into her bed. She tugged and pulled at her blankets until she could properly cocoon herself, and only then did she check her texts.

All Peter's response read was, ' _What?_ '

Stiles considered explaining the situation with her dad, but her screen showed her that he was typing out a lengthy response. Stiles didn't care how long he took to send the text. She wasn't comfortable enough yet. It left her time to wriggle out of her blankets, take off her button-up, and peel off her sports bra. The shirt, she dropped off the side of her bed. She tossed the bra across the room, feeling satisfaction in the act. Her boobs wanted to be free, and the awful thing felt too tight and constricting around her ribs. Stiles probably needed to go out and buy some new ones soon. She wasn't looking forward to it.

Her boobs were a perfectly reasonable B cup. She didn't _want_ them to get bigger, damn it.

Stiles put her tee shirt back on and scooted back into her nest of blankets, dragging them up around her shoulders, and waited for Peter's response. Jeez, the guy was typing forever.

But when she got the text, it was quite brief. He must have been typing and deleting what he wrote. Like, a lot.

' _Should I be fleeing the state?_ '

Stiles shoved her fist to her mouth to muffle the laughter that was bubbling up inside her. Not that there was anyone around to hear it. It was reflex. It had to be _Peter_ to pull her up out of her funk, didn't it? That was so typical for the course of her life these days.

She didn't wait to text him back, sending, ' _relax. my dad's gotten it into his head i'm not so secretly banging derek. because angsting and broody is SO my type._ ' Stiles hit the send button, then quickly added, ' _that was sarcasm btw_ '

Stiles waited, watching her phone. It took a minute for Peter to respond, but once he did, it was almost exactly what Stiles expected to see.

' _Should DEREK be fleeing the state?_ '

' _let me check my magic 8 ball. reply hazy. ask again later. I DON'T KNOW! but i don't think so? my dad's upset but it's not like he has grounds to do anything and he knows it. p sure that will change when he finds out about junior. derek will probs be his #1 suspect. yay._ ' She finished it off with a couple frowny-faced emojis and sent the text.

Despite the subject matter, Stiles was beginning to relax. Who knew awkward texts with Peter about Very Serious Problems could ease her mind so well? She realized she was smiling, for god's sake. Smiling, as she discussed her father's belief that his daughter was having sex with the second-worst person she would want him to suspect.

The worst being Peter, of course. For obvious reasons.

She set the phone down, letting her heavy eyelids fall. Maybe she would take a nap. That sounded like an excellent plan. She'd only been craving one all day long.

That was when she heard the sound. A slight _crack_ , outside. Like the noise made when a big stick was snapped in two.

Stiles tried to tell herself it was just an animal. Stepped on a fallen tree branch. A stray dog, probably.

Except the hair on her arms was standing up, her heart was pounding in her chest, and Stiles' instincts were screaming _Danger!_ at full volume.

She got out of bed, keeping one of her blankets wrapped around her half naked body, and went to her window. She lifted a slat in the blinds and peeked outside. Stiles didn't see anything, but that didn't mean much. She drew up the shade, opened her window, and stuck her head out.

It was quiet. Middle of the day. Little traffic, not a lot of people around. Stiles closed her eyes and took in a deep breath through her nose, trying for scent rather than sound this time.

She pulled her head back inside and let go of the blanket so she could slam the window shut as quickly as possible. Then she locked it. And dropped the shade back down for good measure.

Warning bells were going off in Stiles' head. She couldn't say why. There was no particular scent she could place, nothing she could put a name to. Nothing she could even pinpoint to say, 'There, that one. That's the one freaking me out.' But Stiles listened to her instincts. When they told her a situation was suspicious, or danger was imminent, she damn well _listened_.

Should she call Derek? But, no. She didn't have her phone. She had Peter's cell phone, but that was only for Peter. It was a rule. A rule Stiles made, one she had decided must be strictly enforced.

She scrambled for the phone, buried and lost in her bed. Once it was in her hands, she knew what she was going to do.

Stiles called Peter.

He answered on the third ring.

"Trying to have a decent conversation through texting is so tedious. I'll never understand your generation's preference for—"

Stiles didn't feel remotely guilty for cutting him off.

"Oh my god, shut up," she hissed, keeping her voice down. Her words were flooding from her, sharp and too fast. "There's something outside and it's freaking me out and maybe I'm just being hypersensitive and paranoid or something but I'm really freaked out and I'd really like it if you would tell me it's nothing because again with the ' _I'm super freaked out_ '!"

Peter was silent for what felt like way too long to Stiles' frantic nerves.

Finally, he asked, "Saying 'something' doesn't exactly help me, here, Stiles. _What_ is it?"

"I don't know! _Something_. If I knew what the 'something' was, I'd have said _that_ instead of 'something'!"

Peter made an impatient noise. "Use your _senses_ , you—" he cut himself off that time, probably before he insulted her. "You are a _werewolf_ , sweetheart. Act like it."

"How about you fuck off with the condescending bullshit for once?" Stiles fought the urge to scream. "I _did_. I _heard_ something with my _werewolf_ ears, and then I went to check it out and I didn't _see_ anything with my _werewolf_ eyes. So I tried my _werewolf_ nose and, guess what? All I learned is that there is _something_ out there and I am _freaked out_ and I _don't know what it is_!"

"Really, Stiles, this level of animosity—"

Stiles hung up on him.

What. a complete. asshole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens! And by 'thickens', I suppose I mean: 'is finally, slowly starting to come into play, 45k words into this story'.


	16. lock the door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _There was a different sort of intensity between them now. No less biting or sarcastic, but there was a heat now that had nothing to do with snappy comebacks or insults._ "
> 
> There's something weird going on, and not all of it is happening outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is late. Sorry. I hope you enjoy this chapter.

* * *

**Monday, April 18, 2011**

The phone buzzed in her hand. It was Peter calling her back.

"I swear to god, if he says one more snarky word..." she threatened the air aimlessly before answering. "Are you going to say anything helpful this time?"

"Come over."

"I said helpful. I am grounded. Indefinitely. I will be grounded from now until my kid is in college if I leave the house right now. And I don't even have a car; my dad took the keys to my jeep."

Peter must have pulled the phone away from his face because she only heard a muffled, "...fucking... child," come through faintly.

"What do you want me to do, then?" he asked her, mouth back to an appropriate distance from the receiver. "Waste time going over there? Call our beloved _Alpha_ and ask him, 'pretty please, go over to Stiles' house and assuage her paranoia' so you can wait twenty minutes for him to get there and take a look around?"

She could have gotten angrier about that. Maybe she should have. Peter was absolutely still being a condescending jerk. But it was one thing for Stiles to call it paranoia. To hear Peter use her own word back on her? It was strangely reassuring. It should have been grating, irritating. She should be feeling like he wasn't taking her seriously. But she didn't.

She probably _was_ being paranoid. For all she knew, werewolves got really freaked out by angry cat pheromones or something. It probably was nothing. But she was scared. And Stiles? Stiles _hated_ being scared, especially when there was nothing immediate for her to fight back to push away her fear.

"Right," she said, feeling suddenly foolish as she stood in the middle of her bedroom in nothing but a tee shirt, undies, and a pair of mismatched socks. "Good point." Her voice was dull and flat.

Peter sighed.

"Lock your doors and windows. I'll be by and do a sweep around your house. Stay inside."

"You don't have to," she tried to insist. She didn't sound too insistent. "I can do it. I'm a werewolf, remember?" That was a total failure at levity.

" _Stay inside_. I'll text you when I get there so you won't panic if you hear me poking around."

Stiles bit her lip, wanting to ask him not to hang up, to stay on the line with her. He was a jerk, but he was what she had. And Peter being a dick to her was starting to make the terror she had felt seem so much less present. Like everything was normal, and Stiles was just being Stiles. Irrational, blowing everything out of proportion, Stiles.

She didn't ask.

"If anyone calls the cops on me for being a peeping tom, you better have a good explanation at the ready. I'm not going to prison for this."

Stiles was almost able to smile at that, hearing the teasing in his voice.

"I'll tell them you were over here to warn your nephew's underage girlfriend away from him. You wouldn't want him going to prison for _this_ ," she said, purposely using his own words.

To Stiles' surprise, she heard a loud growl, an honest-to-god wolfy _growl_ , come through the speaker.

It got cut off halfway through. Peter had hung up on her.

Stiles wasn't even mad. He was probably embarrassed about the growling. And that was an amusing thought.

Stiles let out a weary, half-hearted chuckle. She still felt the prickles of unease in her system, but it wasn't so bad anymore. Peter had helped, in his own way. Stiles slowly sank down onto the edge of her bed. She needed to sit. Then she glanced toward her window.

No. What she needed to do was lock up the house.

And maybe put on some pants, first.

Her jeans were right there, but Stiles wanted something more comfortable than that. Pajama pants would have to do. She pulled a pair out of her dresser, black ones with little yellow Bat-Signals all over them. Why be a frightened werewolf when you could be Batman, after all.

She carried the phone with her as she went around the house, double checking every window and all the doors.

It had only been a few days she last did this dance. Stiles hoped this wasn't going to be a regular event. She couldn't bear the embarrassment if Peter found no reason for her to have turned into a frightened, pathetic little girl, calling on a big, strong man to come take care of her.

Stiles rolled her eyes at her inner monologue as she checked the lock on the back door, the last one on her mental checklist.

Then again, she supposed, it would actually be worse if he did find a good reason for her to be so scared. Much worse if he found it _after_ it ate her. Or whatever it was that particular mystery terrifying _something_ did to its victims.

Stiles needed to stop thinking like that. It wasn't doing her any favors, just making her feel even more jittery and jumpy.

The phone buzzed, causing Stiles to fumble with it in surprise. She glanced at the screen and saw that she had received a text from Peter.

' _I'm at the end of your street._

' _STAY INSIDE_ '

Yeah, okay, she got the picture. Stiles was staying inside. She really hadn't wanted to go out there anyway. Not when she could get Peter to do it for her.

Stiles was occasionally impulsive and reckless. That didn't mean she was immune to fear.

And, if anybody asked, she was only so scared because she was pregnant and fearful for her unborn child. Yeah. That was it. Of course, it was an excuse she could only give to two people, but since Peter was the only one who had been subject to her terrified ramblings, it didn't really matter much.

What ensued was ten of the most tense, nerve-wracking minutes of Stiles' life. Which was saying something. She sat on her kitchen floor, biting her nails and fighting with herself over whether or not she should be listening to what was going on outside.

She was running at a 1:1 in eavesdropping for the day. Or was the conversation between Derek and Isaac a loss, too? She wasn't sure.

Someone knocked on the back door.

Stiles... well. Stiles may have screamed a little. Just a little! She was startled, okay? It was a perfectly natural response to scream at surprising noises when your panic-o-meter was in the red to begin with.

"Stiles, it's me."

Okay, it was Peter. Okay, okay, okay. That was... that was okay.

Stiles stood, shaky on her feet, and willed her pulse to cool its jets. She could do without a heart attack at sixteen. She unlocked the door and stood behind it, crouching down a little as she opened it and peered out over the side.

She was willing to open the door because it was Peter. That didn't mean she was going to stand right there in the open doorway and invite a surprise attack when they were both off their guards. Stiles watched movies and her daddy didn't raise no dummy.

"I'm not saying you were wrong to be concerned," Peter said as he stepped inside and gave her a strange look. He shook his head a little at the sight of her creeping from behind the door, but didn't comment on it.

"...but?" Stiles said, shutting and locking the door the second Peter was fully inside.

"But whatever was out there—"

"—so there _was_ something?" Stiles interrupted, latching onto that vital piece of information like a lifeline.

" _Yes_. Now, _as I was saying_ , whatever it was, it's gone. And it wasn't human. Frankly, I don't know how you managed to pick up the scent at all from inside your house. It was so faint I could barely pick it out until I was directly on top of it." Peter frowned, looking thoughtful.

"You've got that, 'oh I just had a thought and isn't that _fascinating_ ' look on your face. I don't think I like that look," Stiles said flatly.

Peter shook his head. "It's nothing bad. I think it might be a side effect of your... situation. A heightened sense of anything that might be a danger to you or your child."

Stiles didn't know how to respond to that.

"Does that mean I'm going to keep freaking out over nothing? Because that's going to get old pretty fast. I mean, this is the second time it's happened and I'm already over it. Can I _stop_ doing that?"

Peter froze while Stiles was talking. As soon as she went quiet, he invaded her personal space and cupped her face in his hands and forced her to look him in the eyes. It felt like he was examining her. It was weird.

Also weirdly nice? The concern in his expression was nice, anyway. Not so much with the random face grabbing and intense staring. But that didn't mean Stiles was going to pull herself away from it.

"This happened to you before?"

"Yeah?" said Stiles. "It wasn't as scary the first time. It was more like... something felt _wrong_ , and I got scared and locked up the house and waited it out. It wasn't so bad. Today was a hundred times worse."

"When was this?" Peter asked her, moving a hand to the back of her neck, gently stroking up and down with the tips of his fingers. The thumb of his other hand was drawing delicate little circles on her cheekbone.

"Uh, a couple days ago? Friday. Right when Derek left, after..." Stiles smiled, the action feeling incongruous with her mood up to this point. "After he dropped off the food you made for me. I was standing out front when I felt it."

Peter smiled in return and pressed a kiss to her forehead before drawing away.

Stiles felt warm.

She wasn't sure she liked it. But she didn't lose her smile.

"I should go," he told her. "I need to—"

"You need to tell me what you did to get Derek to play delivery boy," Stiles said, smile sliding into a smirk. "He looked _traumatized_."

Peter lifted his eyebrows. "I don't know why he would. I simply reminded him of the importance of taking care of pack members. Especially ones who are, ah, in a 'family way', shall we say."

"Uh huh. Right. Somehow I find it hard to believe that's the whole story."

"Why, Stiles, don't you trust me?" Peter looked too innocent for her to take him seriously.

Stiles snorted, amused despite herself.

"Yeah, no. Do I look stupid to you? And think on it before you answer that," she added, slipping in a little bit of threat to her words.

Peter stared at her, remaining silent as his eyes roved over her body.

"I like your taste in pajamas," he said, lips turning up at the corners. Which, okay, Stiles liked her Batman PJs too, but that didn't didn't explain the smug look on Peter's face. His gaze stopped at chest height. Stiles did not like his smile. Her own slipped and she looked down at herself, wondering what had caught his interest.

That was when she realized that she didn't have any sort of bra on, her shirt did very little conceal the shape of her breasts, and her nipples were visibly perked up.

Stiles yelped and slapped an arm around her chest. She looked up at Peter with narrowed eyes.

"You. Out. Thank you for coming— _stopping by!_ — thank you for stopping by and you can leave now because I'm fine— I'm _okay_ — and you can go," she chattered, the words flying from her mouth without her brain having any input and _please_ , she thought, don't let her be blushing.

Peter hummed in assent, eyes flicking from her chest, to her face, to her chest, and back again.

"You're right. I need to go have a little chat with Derek."

Stiles nodded and stepped past him to unlock the door again so he could leave. He could have unlocked it himself, sure, but she preferred not to be facing him at the moment, and it gave her the perfect excuse to turn her back to him.

Strange. A week ago, Stiles wouldn't have dared leave her back vulnerable around Peter. Then again, a week ago she wouldn't have welcomed Peter into her home and forgotten to put a bra on first.

There was a different sort of intensity between them now. No less biting or sarcastic, but there was a heat now that had nothing to do with snappy comebacks or insults.

Stiles realized in that instant: she wasn't afraid of him anymore. He was still a serious cause for concern, sure, but the fear was gone. And she wanted him, wanted him more than just in crazy dreams that left her feeling empty and unfulfilled when she awoke. Those dreams had worried her, had left her feeling like something was wrong with her, like something inside her had been twisted and _used_.

And it had, hadn't it? Peter had used her to come back to life. But last night he made it sound like the sexual aspects of the dreams had been all her. Last night....

God.

When Peter reached for the doorknob, Stiles knew that she couldn't leave last night unaddressed any longer. She put a hand on his arm to stop him.

"Wait," she said, tightening her grip. She let go when she realized she was digging her nails into his skin, pulling away and taking a step back from him. "I...." Stiles shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts.

"Yes?" Peter prompted her when no more words were forthcoming. He turned to face her, this time keeping his eyes strictly above her neckline.

"We haven't talked about... what happened. Last night. What I did, I mean."

Peter frowned.

"I checked in with Derek earlier. I was under the impression you were aware that Isaac will be fine."

Stiles nodded, bobbing her head too many times to be casual.

"Yeah, but, attacking him wasn't the only thing I did."

Peter's expression gentled.

"Are you all right? You never did say."

Stiles floundered. He kept doing this. He kept asking her how _she_ was doing, never telling her what he was feeling. She got the impression he wasn't upset with her about it, but that could be a convenient untruth. Stiles wasn't afraid of Peter anymore, but she didn't wholly trust him. She couldn't. Especially not to tell the truth. He was so _slippery_.

"I'm _fine_ ," she said. It was a lie. Stiles was so far from fine, _fine_ was on another planet. Palling around with the Mars rover, maybe, while Stiles was busy tying herself up in knots over everyone and everything in her life.

Stiles was just as much a liar as Peter. It was fitting, perhaps. They were a matched pair. At least he wasn't calling her out on the lie, and he was definitely one who would be constantly listening for something like that.

"I'm sorry. About last night," she said. "I attacked you, too. And I know you didn't... want... and I—" Stiles' words broke off, voice choked and caught up in her throat.

This was so _hard_. Why was it so hard?

"Stiles."

Peter had said her name so many times, in so many ways. He was the only person in her life who managed to say her name so affectionately any more.

Her dad could barely stand to look at her these days; she felt like nothing would ever be the same between them again. She was a disappointment, a fuck up. She kept making his life harder and lied to him constantly, and he _knew it_. And Stiles knew that the only thing worse than continuing to lie would be to tell him the truth about everything.

Scott? There was a strain there, the years-long friendship which tethered them together was frayed and knotted. Even when he acted like nothing had changed between them, there was a wavering in his voice when he spoke to her. They didn't quite trust one another any longer. The closeness between them was gone, replaced by an echoing cavern of what they used to have.

And Derek was pretty much incapable of being anything but complicated. There was always an edge of frustration or worry or guilt in his voice. Stiles wasn't holding her breath on him ever fully getting his shit together, no matter how much she was rooting for him. He was so damaged, and while she was hardly one to judge someone for that, there was no _give_ for him. He couldn't let his damage go for even a second, couldn't relax, couldn't just _be_. And it was exhausting for the both of them.

But Peter, who was damaged and untrustworthy and had no compunctions about his creepy tendencies, managed to say her name like she was someone special. Like she was someone to be cherished and appreciated for no reason other than that she was Stiles. Sure, sometimes he would say her name like he wanted to strangle her, or like he couldn't believe someone so smart could be so dumb. But he was capable of this, too.

He was capable of tenderness, of affectionate regard for her.

She was starved for that feeling, and Peter kept dishing it out.

And Stiles, the sucker that she was, ate it up.

"Stiles, it's okay. I understand. The wolf was too strong for you to fight back. I'm not upset with you."

Stiles sucked in her bottom lip and bit down, hard enough to feel it but not so hard she broke skin.

Peter was immediately on her, placing a hand at her chin to draw her lip free with his thumb. He looked so concerned. For her.

"Oh, sweetheart," he said, softly chiding. "Have you been worrying about this all day?"

God, that stupid pet name again. Stiles hated it. She hated how obnoxiously condescending he sounded when he used it. She especially hated how warm and comforted it made her feel right at that moment.

Stiles shrugged and looked away, suddenly finding herself unable to meet his gaze.

"You have _nothing_ to be sorry about," Peter said, fingers tightening on her jaw and chin, tilting her head up. "Look at me."

She obeyed without thinking. Stiles. Who was pathologically incapable of following orders. But Peter could be so mesmerizing at times.

"Last night you followed your instincts. You are brilliant and fierce, and I am so proud of you." Then Peter smirked. "We just need to work on your control. When you learn to combine your instincts with the ability to reason, you will be _unstoppable_. Powerful. You will never have to feel helpless again."

Peter manipulated her head again, sliding his hand to the back of her neck and pressed enough to tilt her face downward. He placed a kiss to the top of her head.

Stiles wanted to press her entire body up against his, wanted to bury her face in his neck and be held.

So she took a step back, and looked anywhere but in his direction. She needed space.

Peter didn't reach for her again. Stiles appreciated it.

"I'm going to let Derek know there's been something creeping around your home," he said at last.

Stiles made an attempt at levity. "Other than you, you mean?"

Peter gifted her with an amused, wicked smile. "Other than me," he confirmed. "Don't forget to lock the door behind me. Call if you need anything."

And then he left.

Well. That had been a sufficiently humiliating experience for Stiles, all things told.

She felt flustered and warm. But also more settled, calmer. Stiles was still worried about whatever it was that was out there, whatever it was that kept lurking around her _home_ and making her instincts flare up and go haywire with panic. But not as terrified as she had been. Peter hadn't been worried about leaving her here by herself, and she was willing to go with him on this one.

She couldn't pinpoint why, but she felt like he genuinely wanted her to be safe. He cared. Which was an insane thought, but it was there in her head and it felt like the truth.

Stiles locked up behind him, knowing full well that if the creature, or whatever, wasn't human, then locks weren't likely to stop it from getting in if it really wanted to. But so far it had contented itself with being creepy and stalkerish, disappearing when its presence was noticed. Stiles felt reasonably sure that breaking down doors would be pretty far down the list of likely responses from this particular danger.

For now, anyway. Who knew if its pattern would hold? Especially now that others knew about it.

Stiles usually lacked all appetite after a scare, too much adrenaline in her system to make even the thought of food appealing. This time, perhaps because it had been so long since she'd last eaten, or maybe her earlier nausea, she felt ravenous.

Thankfully, she'd thought ahead yesterday and made up plenty for leftovers.

Stiles stuffed her face with reheated spaghetti noodles drowned in butter, and cold chicken straight out of the fridge. She wasn't brave enough to dare adding the tomato sauce after vomiting all morning.

Once she was full, satisfaction at a much happier belly and her newfound calm crept up on her. She still had too much on her metaphorical plate: her dad, Scott, the thought of having The Werewolf Talk with Lydia, this mysterious new danger. It all weighed on her. But she didn't have to deal with it right at that moment. She was finally going to get that nap she'd been desiring all day.

Stiles was in bed within minutes, sure she would be asleep as soon as her head hit her pillow.

But no sooner than she was under her covers, she heard the creaking sound of her bedroom door being slowly opened.

Stiles started to sit up, but then she saw Peter standing in the doorway. She stilled, propped up on her elbows.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. "I thought you were going to Derek's."

Peter's eyes glowed brightly across the dim room.

"I came back for you," he said as he took slow measured steps toward the foot of her bed.

"But how did you get in?"

Peter smiled at her and placed a knee down on the mattress.

"You didn't lock the door."

Stiles was confused. She _had_ locked the back door again after he left. Hadn't she?

Peter continued to move, now fully kneeling on either side of her feet. He leaned down and put his hands flat against the bedspread, mere inches away from her waist.

"My, what big eyes you have," Peter drawled, his own still glowing bright blue.

Stiles felt hers light up, knew they matched perfectly. The same brilliant shade, beautiful and inhuman. She was breathing heavier now, chest rising higher with each lungful of air.

Then Peter sat up just far enough to to pull her blanket the rest of the way down her body, allowing the fabric to accumulate just in front of where his knees rest.

Stiles licked her lips. She couldn't shift her gaze away from his face, couldn't bring herself to look anywhere but directly into his eyes.

"I should lock the door," she said, but it was weak. And Peter knew it.

"I'm already here."

Stiles nodded slowly and lay her head back down onto her pillow. She stretched out across the bed. Her back arched a little and her toes curled as she left her throat exposed and vulnerable. He was right. Peter was already there; she didn't need to worry about someone else getting in. Peter would protect her.

Peter smiled at the sight of her baring her neck to him and he gently lowered his body to blanket her. He kissed her cheek, nuzzled just behind her ear with the tip of his nose. Then he whispered directly into her ear.

"Are you mine, Stiles?"

Stiles closed her eyes at last.

"Yes."

Peter pressed his lips to hers, and she could feel the shape of his satisfied smirk against her mouth before he began to kiss her in earnest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 18 is kicking my ass right now, so I apologize for any continued lateness happening.


End file.
